


Chains and Wings

by Asdgafn



Category: Supernatural, destiel - Fandom
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angelic Possession, Angels, Blood, DeanCas - Freeform, Deception, Demonic Possession, Destiel - Freeform, Gore, Hell, I'm trying to not spoil anything, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Lots of Cursing, M/M, More tags laters., Possible Sexual Content Later, Supernatural - Freeform, Torture, but this isn't a pretty story, casdean - Freeform, mature language, not canon, seriously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 04:58:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8388064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asdgafn/pseuds/Asdgafn
Summary: An Angel of the Lord risked his life to save a single soul from the chains of Hell. He saved the man from the corruption and pain, raised him back into life. He rebuilt him and saw his soul was pure. That man was Dean Winchester. He comes back from Hell in confusion and anger, finding his life was turned upside down in the time he was dead. Determined to continue as a hunter, he pairs up with an unlikely ally, Castiel. That is until a nefarious attack throws the Angel into a seizure, his grace put under lock down, unable to fly away. Now its a race against time as the Angel slowly becomes more and more Human, his grace a dying flicker inside. Can they find who had attacked before its too late? (In the beginning, this story closely follows the path of the show before quickly deviating to my own spin of the tale. Still loosely follows.) (*this fic draws inspiration from the song Devils Don't Fly)





	1. Chains and Wings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, welcome to the story. I'm very sporadic about updating. Some days I may post more than one chapter. Sometimes I may go a few days without an update. Everything is posted as I write it. I also do very little editing, I just write and toss it up on here. So my apologies for any errors. Comments+Kudos are appreciated! I especially like comments. I want to know how my story is, how my writing is, etc.

### Chains.

The screams of the damned echoed indefinitely, overlapping into a cacophony of pain with the delicious undertones of insane laughter and sincere pleading. The sound was music to the ears of Alastair as he made his rounds. Some pleaded with those that bore the whips, crying out with pure desperation, claiming there had been a mistake. They did not belong here! Others screamed for forgiveness, their wrecked voices begging too late for they were already trapped with leather cuffs to the racks. Their skin already peeling, bleeding, shriveling under the unending torture.

The demon relished all the sounds the same, yet there was a dedicated few that he enjoyed the most. There was only a few that screamed their pain when he was away, then cursed him when he visited, his offer sliding free from smirking lips. These few were a refreshing change as they told him he could take his offer and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine. Those were the highlight of Alastair’s well, hmm, day. If it could be called that.

He adored watching them struggle on each and every time he visited, enjoyed watching their vehement objections dwindle away. Their cursing eventually turned into half-hearted “go fuck yourself”s, their voices too raw to keep the pure hate in their throats. Eventually they would all accept his offer. No one had managed to not say yes to the demon whose whip bit the hardest, whose cuts sliced the deepest. They all eventually were let down from their rack, their chains, their torment with a whip delicately placed in their hands. They all eventually added to that softer undertone of maniacal laughter to the song of the damned.

There was one damned soul that Alastair took a particular liking to. He made his rounds each and every day, sauntering through the half dried blood that soaked the floor. He made the same offer countless times, the offer to be released from their chains and rack. It was a simple offer, all they had to do to earn their freedom was help him torture the endless souls sent to Hell. Take up the tools of pain and use them to inflict delicious pain. Yet there was one soul in particular whose response to his offer was always a source of amusement.

It was perhaps a bit early to be visiting him but Alastair did not mind deviating from his normal routine to visit a favourite. One moment he was strolling through puddles of blood down a hallway of screams, the next moment he was standing in front of the heaving chest of a man. He hung limply in his leather cuffs, gasping for air through the bubble of blood that dripped freely from his mouth, trailing a red stripe down his throat, down his chest to pool in the cuts littering his abdomen.

“Dean-o, how you doing?” Alastair sang merrily as he leaned forward to inspect him with a smirk. “Ready to accept my offer today? It’s only been, hm, almost thirty years?” The former Hunter raised his head slowly, staring at Alastair with a temporarily blank expression. Then hate twisted his features, turning his eyes dark with absolute rage. His swollen mouth worked for a moment before he spat a glob of blood and phlegm at the demon.

“You can take your offer and shove it up your ass, you pathetic leeching blister. Shove it up right next to that stake jammed up your oozing, disgusting ass.” His words bubbled and popped through the blood filling his mouth, dripping with venom, mixed freely with hate. Dean Winchester was such a fighter, it made Alastair grin ever wider as he carefully wiped his cheek clean with a conjured handkerchief.

“Oh Dean, always a delight speaking with you my boy!” The demon licked his lips, wetting them with a touch of his tongue. “What do you want today? Whip or knife? Or maybe we can explore something more exotic?” His words dripped with a soft musical lilt as he lovingly fondled the instruments lain on a tray next to the rack. His hand paused over a knife, “I think I’m in a mood to carve,” he mused as his fingers folded gently over the blood stained handle.

Dean gritted his teeth when the edge of the knife dug carefully into his skin, pushing through the thin layer to bite into the muscle. He ground out “fuck you” before sinking his teeth into his lips, swallowing down a pained yell. Alastair just smiled a bit more, bracing his other hand against the Hunter’s chest, pushing harder with his knife. The skin parted so easily under the blade, his hand twitching to work out intricate designs in the flesh. Occasionally he would wipe away the blood with his hand, ‘tsk’ing softly.

“You’re always a favourite to work over, Dean.” He said in a soft voice, the words ghosting over his captive with an almost loving tone. He never faltered as he carved through the layers of heaving skin and muscle, exposing the delicate white of Dean’s bones with a few twists and jerks. “Your skin parts so beautifully. No fat or loose skin to warp my art. Everything stays so crisp.” He listened as the cursing turned into a growl. Smirked when that growl turned into yelling.

When Dean finally began to scream, he went on as if he didn’t hear. His voice never rose over a whisper, his hand never grew unsteady over the increasingly twitchy body he worked over. In fact, his smile only continued to grow as he caught the gasped out insults that flavoured the screams. The vile insults that made his skin shiver delightfully as he worked the knife deeper and deeper. The Hunter suggested what Alastair could do with that knife, most involving sodomizing himself with the blade or handle. A few colourful insults explored his heritage. The ones he liked the most were when Dean fantasized about what he would do to the demon if he ever escaped.

It wasn’t much longer until Dean was forced into the wordless scream of true and utter pain, his voice robbed from him as he writhed on the rack. Alastair watched the crimson tide that poured from the carved flesh, pulsing in time with a phantom heartbeat that raced furiously. Then and only then did he set down the knife, drenched with a fresh layer of blood that would seep into the handle with the thousands of other layers of unwashed blood.

 

 

“Are you ready to accept my offer, Dean?”


	2. Chains and Wings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you I'd update as I wrote. Have a second chapter. I wouldn't be surprised if a third was added tonight. I'm struck dumb with my writing inspirations. It's just flowing right out. Have a Cass!

###  Wings

The sound was absolutely horrifying. The Angel initially flinched away from the noise that assaulted his ears, the screaming that would not cease. The constant crack of whips, the gurgling of people choking on their own blood, the insane laughter that would haunt him for many years to come. He had known that Hell was the definition of horror, had known the atrocities committed were what made Hell… well, Hell. But it was entirely different to be a witness to it.

His wings flared out with unease, feathers ruffled with uncertainty and disdain. The atmosphere of the realm made him feel as if a terrible weight were crushing his shoulders, weighing his wings down. The shimmering blue-black feathers drooped quickly with the soul crushing weight of Hell until he dragged them flush against his back, tucked tightly in. He drew in a deep breath, almost choking on the stifling taste of iron that corrupted the air as he forced a note of peace into himself.

He was on a mission of utmost importance. A mission that could not be jeopardized from hesitation. He was an Angel of the Lord, not some weak willed human! He steeled himself against his revulsion, reminding himself firmly of his goal. A higher power had sent him here, to Hell, to rescue a soul, here to rip free someone of unfathomable importance from the chains of Hell. The mission had come with a dire warning, it would not be accomplished in a short amount of time. No, the Angel would wander the realm of pain and suffering for years to find this particular soul. It was well hidden among the damned.

The warning also spoke of his well-being. This was a perilous task set upon his shoulder, his chances of escaping unscathed were near nonexistent. To escape unscathed with a soul intact was nigh impossible. Such a terrible burden would make lesser Angels tremble and doubt but he was a good soldier, he did not question his orders. Instead he had plunged into Hell with determination to succeed, not looking back even once.

Castiel glanced over the countless heaving bodies on racks, the countless bodies pierced by chains, bleeding and pleading for help, no matter how small. His gaze wandered to the shadows, seeking and searching for his quarry. He hid himself in the deepest of the shadows, avoiding the ever piercing gaze of the demons that ruled this domain. He skipped over the souls that begged for forgiveness under the weapons of torture, their words drowning in the blood that flowed too freely in Hell.

He walked past the souls that laughed as they struck other souls with whips, chains, blades. Those were the ones that made him shudder the most as he saw their humanity slowly draining from their flicking souls, watching the red and black ooze staining their humanity. Each strike of the knife, each welt raised by the whip, it all slowly erased what used to make them human. Their laughter was cold and menacing, echoing under the higher sound of torment. They were nearly as numerous as the demons that raised their own tools to the air to bring down on the imagined flesh before them.

Every day in Hell left Castiel a little more drained, he felt the strain on his Grace as he fought to stay hidden from the denizens of Hell. The Angel never took rest, he was always on guard. Always dodging into the endless shadows, sometimes flying away with a downward jerk of his wings. Nothing would stop his quest as he searched for that one soul he needed. The one that glowed to his Angelic sight unlike any other soul. That shining star in a sea of consuming darkness, a beacon in the void of suffering.

Had he known it would take forty years in Hell to find his charge, Castiel might have had doubts before launching into this almost suicidal mission. Forty years of witnessing destruction. He had looked over millions of souls, hidden from millions of demons, worked continually without cease to find one soul in a tide of endlessly souls. Castiel did not know if he could ever recover from the forty years of Hell he had witnessed. Or so he thought until his eyes flitted over one more soul and he was nearly blinded by how brightly it shone.

The pureness of the soul nearly brought the Angel to his knees as peace stole over him, making his eyes flutter shut for the barest of moments. The peace was quickly replaced with a newfound horror tinted with disbelief. He stood, hidden from all who’d look at him, his eyes latched onto the soul he had been tasked to find. Castiel flinched when the knife held by Dean Winchester flashed downwards, smoothly splitting skin and muscle of the soul on the rack before him.

A wicked grin was carved into the face of the former Hunter, his eyes dancing with barely contained glee as he looked at the torment born from his hands. Cass shuddered at the sight, that clouding doubt racing over his mind. For the first time he wondered if his orders may have come from the wrong source, from a source of evil. He was the rescue this soul? The one that tortured with such skill and ease, smirking with a devilish handsomeness that twisted the heart of the Angel.

Had it not been for that glow seeping through the corruption on his soul, he would have guessed he had the wrong one. No. There was no escaping, no mistaking the call to his Grace from the soul, begging him internally for salvation. Castiel purged his doubts with a prayer to God and before they returned, he lunged forward. His hand fastened onto Dean Winchester’s shoulder, wrenching free a hoarse cry from his charge as he shoved his wings downward. Castiel held him tight as they flew free from Hell amid the scream of pain that worked free from the throat of the hunter, whose newborn flesh bubbled under the hand of the Angel.

Within moments the Angel stood within a forest, standing before a sloppily made grave, long since overgrown with weeds. His wings were spread wide for balance and in his arms he cradled the newly made body of Dean Winchester, a body remade so that the man might walk once more on Earth. He held that body tightly, secure against his chest as Cass pondered a strange and new sensation. He was perplexed, confused at what pulsed softly under his skin. A dull throb, similar to a second heart beat that had begun when they left Perdition.

He looked around for a moment, turning carefully with the weight of the man in his arms. The Angel had broken free through the surface of the Earth at the sight of Dean’s grave, where his old body had been lain to rest. Before their arrival there had been nothing more than a skeleton in his coffin, a few rotten scraps clinging to the dirty bones. It was gone now, leaving the coffin empty and ready for the new body to be placed in. Castiel drew his wings in flush against his back once more as he looked down to the peaceful face of the unconscious man. He wrestled internally with the puzzle of the new sensation of their… bond? He sucked in a hard breath before he willed the body into the coffin.

Castiel disappeared with the sound of an enormous boom, the noise deafening. In a simultaneous crack, all the trees surrounding the grave fell downward, flattened to the ground. Their roots trembled in the wake of the destruction, dirt showering the ground with a hiss not unlike rain. Six feet below the crooked cross, the only thing left stand, a new body sucked in a breath and coughed hoarsely. The shoulder of Dean Winchester burned, aching horribly with no memory placing what the wound was or where it had come from.


	3. Chains and Wings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is basically a 2k word recount of Season 4, Episode 1. It is long and vaguely boring compared to the episode but I felt it necessary to add in. I do deviate from the storyline toward the end. Just so I can get onto my .. um.. AU? My version. The next chapter will alternate between Cass and Dean's point of views.

###  Destruction.

_Cough._

The air was thin, dust tickling heavily at his lungs as he coughed violently. His breaths came in short pants, his hands scrabbled at his jeans. His mind lurched with confusion, disjointed screams echoing inside his head. A soft click echoed noisily inside the tight darkness before a whoosh overwhelmed his ears. Light burst free from a small flame of the lighter he held tight in one hand.

_Cough._

The scent of pine lurked ever so slightly in his nose as he coughed weakly again before breathing out, “Help.” The hoarseness of his voice surprised him, he gasped another breath in before choking out another soft and strangled ‘help’. Why was it so hard to breathe? His lungs ached sharply, the air too thin inside the stagnant box. He pressed against the walls, feeling splinters snag at his skin.

He was trapped inside some kind of wooden box. A coffin? He sucked in another desperate breath before he pressed as hard as possible against the ceiling of his confinement. The wood creaked ominously, more dust swirling freely in the air. He pounded his palm against the ceiling, loose bits of dirt falling onto his face, making him blink furiously. One more firm push and the wood cracked against his hands, sending a shower of grit to suffocate him.

Dean scrabbled furiously at the dirt, swiping it downwards to pile under him. Without his light, he worked blindly, digging upwards. Somewhere in his mind he thought of zombies that crawled free from their graves. Surely he wasn’t a zombie. Zombies would not be this sentient, would lack the clarity in which he thought with. He scooped and packed the dirt away, his chest squeezing painfully with the need to breathe.

He would be damned if this was how he died. Again? When he thought it would be his death again, his hands broke free from the dirt. The air was hot against his skin as he flattened his palms against firmer dirt and hauled himself free of the grave. The grass prickled sharply, turned brittle by the sun. The Hunter groaned, arms trembling with the effort to free him. Temporarily exhausted from his effort and finally free of the sucking dirt, he collapsed into the grass and rolled onto his back.

A baby blue sky greeted his eyes when he blinked them open, not a single cloud in sight. His panting was loud in his ears, uninterrupted by any noise of nature around him. It was eerily silent. It was the silence that gave him the energy to stand up, bracing his arms against the ground to push himself upright. He stumbled wearily as he straightened up, still breathing hard from the effort of his escape.

His discomfort was quickly forgotten as he gaped at the destruction surrounding him. Confusion bleed through his emotions as he turned in a slow circle, eyes darting over the fallen trees. The trees were flattened, as if someone had dropped a small bomb in the air. He shook his head slightly before another cough racked his body, his chest tightening as he hacked up a few clods of dirt he had swallowed by accident. The Hunter spat out a disgusting mixture of spit and dirt onto the ground, swiping a hand across his mouth when the moment passed.

Dean licked his chapped lips, wincing at the taste of more dirt and a hint of blood where his bottom lip was cracked. One thing was certain for him: something had raised him from Hell and whatever monster had that kind of juice was dangerous. He made the decision to find his family, Sammy and Bobby would help him find whomever had freed him. He briskly dusted himself off, grimacing at the dust caked on his skin and clothing. God damn it itched something horrible! With a grumble, he straightened his shoulders and took his first step, determined to figure out where in the Hell he was.

Little did he know, as he began to climb through the trembling roots of the fallen trees, his progress was being watched. Two piercing blue eyes studied the back of Dean Winchester, tracking him as he cleared the destruction and marched North. With an emotionless expression, Castiel turned away and launched himself with a powerful flap of his wings. Only a soft swoosh of feathers marked his departure.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

The most frustrating aspect of his apparent revival was the amnesia that clung like a heavy fog to his mind. Dean walked with a single minded determination, searching through his mind as his feet stomped heavily through the dust. The sun beat down on his back, scorching with a heat that made him sweat profusely. He felt like one large bruise, every muscle ached and he was sure he’d become sunburnt soon.

He swiped absently at his forehead, brushing away the sweat that had collected, threatening to drip into his eyes, flicking his arm afterwards. A few hundred feet ahead was what appeared to be a gas station, the kind with the old fashioned red pumps. The building looked grimy, two dusty cars sitting in the parking lot. He hastened his pace, his parched throat reminding him that he badly needed water.

When Dean reached the door of the station, he glanced briefly at the blue and white “CLOSED” sign. Ignoring it, he knocked noisily on the window, the door rattling faintly. He managed to croak out a “Hello?” as he waited a moment. Then he sighed and looked to the side, checking to see if anyone was around. His doubts were confirmed, nary a soul was in sight as the Hunter untied his coat and wrapped it around his hand. A firm smash sent glass flying inwards as the window broke easily.

He reached in carefully, mindful of the broken parts still lining the portion of the window. A searching hand undid the lock, and he was inside the blessedly cool building. It might look run down but the air conditioning was fantastic to feel after the merciless sun. Dean made a beeline for the water, slamming the sliding glass door open and snatching up a bottle. He twisted the cap off and upended the cold water into his mouth, gulping greedily. It felt like a blessing, sliding down his parched throat. He exhaled noisily as he looked around the room.

A rack of newspapers caught his attention immediately as he strode over and plucked up a paper. He blew out a disbelieving breath, the date startling him as he muttered the month out, “September?” Damn it! He threw the paper back down and marched over to the bathroom. His mind raced furiously as he splashed water over his face. He spared a few moments to look in the mirror, marveling as how unmarked he was. His chest showed no sign of the Hellhound attack, despite the memory flashing through his mind.

He jerked his shirt back down then hissed as pain lanced through his shoulder. With a puzzled scowl, he rolled the sleeve upwards. The sight of a hand print emblazoned in his skin startled him. He stared at it for a long moment, running a finger over the blistered skin before he smoothed the sleeve back down and cursed loudly. The Hunter whirled around and began to gather supplies. He stuffed protein bars into a plastic sack, dropped a few bottles in beside them, and even snagged a skinmag. He munched absently at the chocolate bar hanging in his mouth.

It started when he was rifling through the cash register, the weirdness he had been waiting for. The TV flickered on, static blaring as a ringing started inside the building. He flicked it off even as the radio burst into the life. The TV turned back on as he looked around, then rushed to a shelf. He closed a hand around a salt container before running to a window, dumping it hastily over the ledge. The fine white grains spilled onto the floor as the ringing became louder. A pressure built in his head as he tried to pour more salt but it was soon too much. He dropped to his knees, hands clasped to his ears as he groaned with the pain. A short burst and the windows started to explode, knocking him sideways.

He curled up on the ground amid the shower of glass, hands clutching his head. The noise was too much, he felt like he might implode. And just before it was too much, the sound ceased entirely. He slowly pushed himself back up before he bolted out of the station, slamming a hand into the phone booth as he shoved himself inside. The first number was out of service. Damn it Sammy! Then Bobby cursed him with a threat to kill him, heightening his confusion at the aggression from Bobby.

He hung the phone up, making his way back outside toward one of the dusty cars. He jerked open the door and slid across the seat, reaching down. Within minutes the car roared to life and he was zipping down the roar, a trail of dust pluming into the air. He sped off in the direction of Sioux Falls, praying that whatever had been after him was far behind. He cursed the broken radio, too. It was not impressed, only giving off short bursts of static when he tried it. The drive was irritatingly long and silent, leaving him to his disjointed thoughts and faint fear.

It only took him a few hours to make it to Bobby’s house, the ramshackle building standing proudly among the heat shimmers of the late afternoon sun. He wearily stomped up to the door, bringing his fist down in a firm knock against the wood. He had to admit, it was bloody annoying what happened next. The sight of Bobby eased his heart for only a split second before the man swung at him with a knife. He tiredly deflected the attack, shouting at him that it was really him. It was really Dean! He worked through the other tests with equal irritation, his temper flaring when Bobby flung holy water into his face.

“Damn it Bobby,” he breathed after spitting the water to the side, a fierce frown scoring his features. The other man shrugged and muttered something about ‘just checking’. Dean flipped him off and walked over to the counter, grabbing an open bottle of whiskey. He gulped down two shots worth before setting the bottle down. In a few terse sentences he caught Bobby up on his situation, only barely keeping his voice from becoming a growl.

“I woke up in my own grave, dug myself free like a friggin’ zombie, and then got attacked at a friggin’ gas station. Something is after me, Bobby. It’s got enough juice to explode windows and makes a god awful sound that almost had my ears bleeding. Hell, they’re still ringing like a church on Sunday!” He slammed his fist onto the counter before taking another gulp from the bottle.

Bobby stared at Dean for a long moment before he sank down into a chair, running a hand over his face. “Damn, son. That… that is rough.” His voice cracked slightly, “If only Sammy were here.” A sharp note of sadness tainted the man’s voice and Dean turned to stare at him. His green eyes darkened with fear as he rushed over to the table and dropped to his knees, ignoring the flash of pain from hitting the floor.

“Bobby. Bobby! What happened to Sam?” His voice was barely above a whisper, his hands shooting out to grab the seat of the chair. “Where… Where is Sammy?” The old mechanic looked down at Dean with sorrow in his eyes and sighed as his eyes closed briefly. He steeled himself for a moment before he croaked out:

 

 

“He’s dead, Dean.”


	4. Chains and Wings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This loosely follows Season 4 Episode 1. From here on out my story will only vaguely follow that of Supernatural.

###  Alcohol and Coffee.

The sound of splintering wood shattered the silence of the room, followed shortly after with a shout of frustration. Next the leg to a broken chair sailed across the room to smash into the wall, exploding into a shower of splinters that scattered into the carpet. Dean was prepared to throw another part of the chair he had broken moments before but a polite cough interrupted him. He turned around with the back of the chair clutched in his hands, which were oozing a slow drip of blood that stained the floor in splashes of bright red.

“Are you done yet, boy?” Bobby asked in an exasperated tone. “Breakin’ chairs ain’t gonna bring back Pam’s eyes. Throwing your lil’ bitch fit just wastes time and breaks innocent chairs.” The old mechanic was slouched in a sagging couch, a bottle of whiskey in his hand. He hadn’t bothered with a cup today, instead he drank straight from the bottle. “What we need is a spell to find the son of a bitch.” He tilted the bottle toward Dean, silently offering him some of the bracing alcohol.

Dean sucked in a hard breath, harsh words just resting on the tip of his tongue, ready to be shouted or screamed. He opened his mouth, moments from spewing out the hateful sentences but then he blinked and all the fight drained out of the Hunter. Instead of speaking, he dropped the back of the chair and stumbled over to Bobby. A few gulps of whiskey, a muttered curse or two, and he was back to being the usual Dean. Which wasn’t saying much, the usual Dean was just wrecked but stubbornly determined.

“How do you think we’re going to summon it, Bobby? It burned her eyes clean out of her skull. And all she did was look at it! Do you have a spell for something with that much juice?” His voice was slightly hoarse and he coughed out the croak before swigging another shots worth from the bottle. “What the Hell kind of monster can burn out eyes? It’s fucked up.” He clicked his tongue against his teeth with regret before licking away a lingering drop of whiskey from his lips.

Bobby raised an eyebrow at the wreck of a boy that stood, swaying, before him. “Well, ya gotta say, there’s a spell for everything.” He gestured sharply toward the bookshelves lining the walls, the scattering of scrolls lying on his desk, the room that was so full of knowledge. “Start digging, boy. I’ll get the coffee started ‘cause I don’t think either of us are sleeping tonight. And for gods’ sake, slow down on the booze there and do something about your hands.” The end of his little speech was punctured by a tired groan as he hauled himself off the couch and headed into the kitchen.

Dean stared at the retreating backside of Bobby for a long moment before turning toward the cluttered desk. He shoved the desk chair aside and kneeled down on the stained carpet, pulling open a drawer with a jerk that left a smear of blood on the handle. A roll of bright white gauze was fished free from the depths of the drawer, hidden under a flask of what looked like blood and a pouch of blackened bits of herbs. He rolled it over his hands, tying the bandage tight with the help of his teeth.

Since his hands were now taken care of, the Hunter looked over the desk for a moment. He snatched up a book at random that was most likely made from human skin, the cover dry and crackly under his fingers and flopped down onto the now vacated couch. He sat down the half empty bottle of alcohol onto the floor next to him after another generous gulp. It was rationalized as being a bracing shot for reading the book, which already had his skin crawling with revulsion. And to think it was only page one.

It took six hours, thirty-two minutes to find what they were looking for. It took four pots of coffee and another bottle of whiskey to stumble across the scroll that held their requests. It took two screaming matches between Dean and Bobby, a thrown bottle, and a smashed coffee mug (although that was genuine accident, it was Dean’s favourite mug). At approximately half past 3 AM, Bobby blew out a surprised noise and suddenly sat up straighter. He ran a hand over his mouth, a thoughtful gesture he had learned from Dean or maybe Dean had learned from him, fingers dragging over his jaw as he worked it absently.

“Boy, I think I…” He paused, eyes scrunched and flicking side to side as the words were read with as much speed as tired eyes could manage. “By god, I think I got it. Dean. Dean!” The last was shouted when there was no reply, jerking the Hunter awake. He had fallen asleep only minutes before, his book still clutched in his hands. Dean pushed himself upright on the couch, staring at Bobby with a half-crazed, half asleep expression. “Dean, I have the spell.” Bobby repeated grimly.

It was one more pot of coffee and another hour later that Dean found himself watching Bobby spray paint what seemed like a billion symbols all over the inside of a shed. Two tables were shoved up against walls, lined with every weapon variety they could each think of. Knives made of silver, of steel, of iron. A few canisters of rock salt, a jug of holy water, Hell they even had a crow bar. Their arsenal was intended to fight of everything imaginable from Demons to Werewolves. From Shifters to Vampires.

“That’s a Hell of an art project you go going there,” Dean commented wryly as he picked up a knife, inspecting it with a critical eye. He set it down among a dozen other knives and daggers already lining the table he stood by. The white bandage still wrapped over his hand caught slightly on the handle of the weapon, prompting Dean to tuck in the loose edge of the gauze. He rubbed absently at his nose, brushing away the beginning of an itch as he listened to Bobby.

“Traps and talismans from every faith on the globe,” the old mechanic was saying. He had finished the last of his ‘art project’ and walked over to the table Dean was preparing. He hesitated for a moment before tacking on, “How you doing?” The frantic behaviour of the Hunter was setting Bobby on edge. Dean was twitchy and restless in the confines of the shed; he arranged and re-arranged the tables over and over with an obsessive need to move and be useful.

Rather than give a good reply, Dean shunted away the question with a listing of the tools. “Stakes, iron, silver, salt, a knife… I mean, we’re pretty much set to catch and kill anything I’ve ever heard of.” He waved his bandaged hand over each item as he listed them, even gesturing backwards to include something behind him. His words were grim with an edge of murderous promise. And when Bobby expressed, “This is still a bad idea,” Dean gave an exasperated huff. He gripped the table tight, “Yeah, Bobby, I heard you the first ten times. What do you say we ring the dinner bell?”

Bobby exhaled sharply as if he wanted to say something, then he shook his head slightly and moved over to the second table. The table was already prepared for the spell, the required supplies mixed accordingly. All Bobby had to do was pick up a bowl and sprinkle a pinch of the contents into a silver dish, which expelled a lazy stream of smoke in response. He murmured the required words to the spell, voice firm.

“ _Amate spiritus obscure…_ ” The words echoed eerily in the shed, the chant warping back in on itself in a soft whisper. Bobby seemed unfazed, marching through the lines with practiced ease. Dean shifted impatiently while he watched, a hand curled around the hilt of a dagger that gleamed wickedly in the white of the lights. When the incantation was complete, Bobby sprinkled a last pinch over the silver dish, his final word spoken with a finality that rang in the room.

As the last of the word died in the air, Bobby leaned over and snatched up a sawed off shotgun loaded with rock salt shells. Dean stood at the ready, weapon raised defensively as he looked around the room frantically. The moment ticked by with agonizing slowness, fading into a minute, then five, then ten. With each passing minute, both Hunters started to relax a fraction. When it marked fifteen minutes past, Bobby muttered a curse and sat down on the table, resting his gun in his lap.

The twenty minute mark had Dean drawing lazy designs in the wood of the table he sat on, legs kicking restlessly in the air. He chewed on his words for barely a moment before asking, “You sure you did the ritual right?” Bobby threw him the dirtiest of looks, one that might have scorched his eyebrows off. He flipped the dagger over, hastily amending his earlier statement with a flush and a “sorry”. He clicked his tongue against his teeth, sighed, and then laid the dagger flat on the table. “Touchy, touchy, hm.”

As if to challenge his words, a bang erupted on the roof that made Dean flinch slightly. The wind moaned brokenly against the structure of the shed, starting as a rough breeze and progressing quickly into a furious howl. The metal sheets the roof consisted of broke partially free, banging up and down on the rafters. Dean grabbed a shotgun, also loaded with rock salt shells, as he hopped off the table. Bobby mimicked his movement until they were both backing up toward the rear of the shed.

They looked upwards then toward the sides, a crash of thunder booming into life over their heads. Dean scoffed, “Wishful thinking, but maybe it’s just the wind?” Bobby snorted softly at the comment and seconds later, the light above their head exploded into a rain of glass fragments that had the two ducking. The doors of the shed, despite being barred with a wooden beam, groaned the burst open. A shadow preceded the creature they had summoned, shortly being followed by a strolling… man?

Dean watched as a man dressed in a trench coat marched his way into the shed, moving with a confidence that stuck even the cocky hunter. It looked like a human, one with scruffy black hair and eyes bright enough a blue to see from where Dean stood. A human that didn’t even flinch when Bobby and Dean started firing, shotguns recoiling in their hands. The lights overhead continued to explode in flashes of light, showering everyone beneath with sparks and glass. The man continued to walk at his sedate pace, staring down the Hunters with an intense gaze.

When it was clear their shotguns didn’t do the monster any damage, Dean and Bobby shared a look before bailing toward their arsenals on the tables. Dean grabbed the knife that extinguished demons, holding it tight against his back, hidden from the view of the monster. His breathing was harsh even to his own ears as he stared into the bright blue of the beasts’ eyes. “Wh-Who are you?” Dean asked aggressively, shoving down his fear to burn in the pit of his stomach.

“I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.” The monster came to a stop just in front of Dean. It spoke with a deep voice, tone cool and factual with a bit of a gravelly note. It cocked its head toward the side, raising an eyebrow a fraction, as if daring Dean to reply. Dean growled, “thanks for that”, and lunged forward with the knife raised. The blade sank with a wet squish into the chest of the monster, who didn’t even blink at the motion. No, it actually smirked at Dean with another little eyebrow raise.

Dean retreated a step, eyes darting from the hilt of the dagger to the face of the creature. It followed Dean’s gaze, focused on the hilt for a brief moment before it yanked it free from its flesh. The dagger made a dull clank when it was dropped and the monster easily deflected Bobby when the old mechanic swung with a crowbar. The barest touch of its fingers to Bobby’s forehead had him slumping to the ground. The monster tilted its head to the side slightly, studied the fallen man for a moment, and then turned back toward Dean.

“We need to talk, Dean. Alone” 

~_~_~_~_~_~

Humans. What a frustrating batch to deal with! Castiel mentally sighed as he brushed away the attacks from the humans. The blasts of their guns echoed dully in his ears yet he didn’t feel a thing, just the sensation of his clothing being torn. The knife did sting a little but it was worth the expression of shock that flared into life on Dean’s face. But even he had to admit the crowbar was a bit excessively. The metal parted through the feathers of his extended wings, warning him of the impending blow, his arm jerking upwards to deflect it.

A quick turn and step had him facing the attacker. Castiel willed his grace into existence for a brief moment as he rested two fingers against the head of the older human. The two locked eyes for the barest of moments before he willed the human to sleep. The man sank slowly to his knees, slumping over in a dead sleep. Assured that he was asleep, Cass turned back toward Dean with an exasperated expression. “We need to talk, Dean. Alone.” His hand twitched slightly to indicate Bobby and his wings ruffled restlessly.

He brushed off the rudeness of Dean when the human shoved past him, shouldering him out of the way roughly. He took a small sidestep toward one of the two tables in the room, looking around briefly to take in the sight of hundreds of drawings. He was almost impressed when he looked back toward the two humans. Dean was crouched next to Bobby, his hand pressing against the unconscious one to check his pulse. Castiel resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Instead he rifled through the pages of a book.

“Who are you?” The Hunter had a surprisingly deep, gruff voice. Castiel brushed his fingers over the page, eyes scanning the words as he replied with the obvious, “Castiel”. He noted the change from grudgingly curious to frustrated when Dean amended his statement, “Yeah. I figured that much. I mean _what_ are you?” Cass finally looked up to stare at the Hunter, unable to hide the slight note of confusion from his voice. “I’m an Angel of the Lord.” Wasn’t it obvious what he was? Humans!

Dean slowly rose from his crouch, a venom polluting his voice as he spat. “Get the Hell out of here. There’s no such thing.” He stood with his shoulders hunched slightly, his eyes darting downwards with poorly disguised concern for his companion. Castiel leaned forward a fraction, smoothing in a firmer note to his voice, “This… This is your problem, Dean. You have no faith.” The Angel squared his shoulders back as a flash of lightning illuminated the room, his wings flaring outwards.

What happened next greatly puzzled Castiel. Dean went from staring at him with absolute hatred burning in his expression, to stumbling backwards in shock. The Hunter landed hard on his rear, hands scraping against the concrete that composed the floor of the structure. His eyes, an enchanting shade of bright green, widened with something akin to fear or perhaps wonder. Cass tilted his head toward the side, following the line of Dean’s stare. Then it was his turn to be confused.

The Hunter could see his wings! The realization had him jerking his wings in tight against his back, the feathers fluffing outwards with discomfort. Dean licked his lips nervously as he watched, his voice a hoarse whisper. “I-I can see your… Your wings? They weren’t there a moment ago. God damn. What the Hell?” The Angel glowered at the blasphemy, muscles tightening with the urge to scold the human.

“Dean. I am the one who yanked your soul free from the chains of Hell. We share a profound bond. Only special humans can see the wings of an Angel.” He took the factual route, words dripping free with an almost scornful tone. He neglected to mention his half of the bond, the soft thumping of a second heartbeat that pulsed in his chest, hammering in sync with the Hunter’s racing heart. “I was sent by God to rescue you.”


	5. Chains and Wings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH BOY. I got inspiration thanks to my sister. I have fleshed out the next, like, six chapters, oh buddy. So buckle up. Shit is about to go DOWN.

###  Broken

The sky was dark grey edged in soft blues, heaving with angry storm clouds that seemed to think the world needed a watering. Flickers of lightning illuminated the edges of the roiling clouds every so often, quickly followed the dull roar of thunder booming through the night sky. A brisk breeze brought goose bumps prickling over any exposed skin, quickly numbing the affected areas. It was the dragging end of winter, the fickle end of February.

It was currently 31 degrees Fahrenheit outside. Just barely a degree under freezing, which meant the rain would pound down for an hour or two before turning into heavy, wet snow. The Weatherman predicted it would get as low as 23 degrees overnight and warned people to be cautious of ice in the morning. Despite the chilly night, a lone person stood outside dressed in nothing but a black t-shirt, ripped blue jeans, and sturdy boots of an unknown colour. The wind tugged at their clothes insistently, making the fabric ripple over their body. It was hard to disguise the hard muscles that lay under the thin cloth.

The person turned out to be a man, the flickering of the overhead sign giving way his gender. Dean Winchester stood in the neon lighting of the motel sign, barely moving despite the absolutely deplorable conditions outside. He seemed to be asleep, standing stock still with his eyes squeezed shut. The only sign he was awake was when the rain started pouring down with another erupting boom of thunder. He turned away with an expression of sudden anger, quickly turning the handle of a nearby door and ducking inside the room behind it.

“Damn it Cass,” Dean growled as he stomped into the dingy room he was renting for the night. “Five months of this routine and still you won’t answer when fucking called.” He scraped the underside of his boots against a rug near the door, rubbing off the small film of water that had collected on the underside from the torrential rain that now slammed against the windows. A brisk shake of his head sent a few glittering drops scattering as he stomped his way into the mini kitchen of his room.

He jerked open the door to the fridge, looked at his supply of beer for a brief moment and cursed loudly. There were only four bottles of beer left; actually, three now as he grabbed one and slammed the door shut. A twist of his wrist had the cap off and soon the cool liquid was gliding down his throat as he gulped a long pull down, absently wiping away a few clinging drops with the back of his hand. He worked his way over to the bed, flopping down with a groan (mindful to not spill his drink).

Five months. It was nothing short of amazing how quickly time passed when someone worked themselves to the bone. Dean Winchester barely spent a week resting after discovering who had risen him from Hell before he launched himself into the draining task of being a solo Hunter. He worked case after case with barely a pause between. In fact his longest rest had been a week in the hospital after a Shifter broke his collar bone flinging him into a brick wall. If Cass hadn’t healed his miserable ass, he may have been there much longer.

Five months. These months had been a close mimic to Hell, full of dangerous cases. The worst had been a siren problem. Men were murdering their wives (or in the case of one, their mother) with perfect clarity to their minds. At first Dean had been at a loss to what was happening until a doctor mentioned the unusual levels of hormones in their blood. Then all it took was an hour long phone call with Bobby to discover it was sirens. The memory of it still made his skin crawl, how easily he had fallen under their spell. He would have killed anyone just for the barest chance to please the siren. If Cass hadn’t shown when he did, Dean might have just been another body to add to their growing list.

But Cass did show and he saved Dean’s life, plunging the bronze blade first into the shoulder of Dean then into the heart of the siren, moving with the impossible grace and speed of an Angel. Then he had the audacity to scold Dean about letting his guard down, the body of the siren still warm and bleeding on the floor. It took almost an hour to shut the damn Angel up and even then, it was because Dean had cursed him up, down, and sideways. He had thrown the Hunter such a dirty look before plunging his wings down and disappearing with the soft sound of feathers through the air.

The memory of the siren case had Dean take another hearty gulp from his beer, washing away the bitter taste of the memory. When he lowered the bottle, his eyes focused on the new figure standing in the room. Bright blue eyes watched him with such seriousness, tainted with the ever present look of disapproval. Dean licked his lips as he sat up, setting his drink aside on the nightstand. “Well, well. If it isn’t my Angel in a trench coat. Seriously, dude, your sense of fashion blows.”

Castiel didn’t waste a moment to reply to the banter, he just flatly asked “What do you want, Dean?” The Hunter rolled his eyes heavenward while blowing out an explosive sigh. Sometimes he swore Cass had a stick rammed right up his ass. The Angel was quite the character, or lack of character. He was always serious and right down to business, even from the first night they had met (at least the first night Dean remembered, being raised from Hell did not count).

That same night, Cass had briskly explained he was there to help Dean. He barely let his words sink in before Dean was doubled over as his ribs burst with sudden pain. The Angel had etched enochian wards into the very bone of Dean and Bobby’s ribs; wards meant to hide the two from any searching demons or Angels. Remembering that awful pain, Dean absently rubbed a hand over his ribs until Cass coughed politely. “Dean? What do you want?” He repeated in a bored voice.

Dean blinked, jerked free from the sucking chasm of his memories. They always bounded over him without warning. “Oh, uh. There’s a vampire in town. I, um, need some help taking it down. Damn thing has a body count of nearly two dozen.” He cleared his throat with a sharp cough, looking away from the serious stare of the Angel. That was another problem that Cass had. He was always _staring_. Although Dean was not one to talk, he had caught himself staring at the Angel’s wings more times than he could count.

It wasn’t Dean’s fault. Cass had beautiful wings, something that Dean would never admit out loud. They were massive, even when tucked so firmly against the Angel’s back, like they were now. When they were indoors, the Angel kept his wings tightly under control, the dark blue-black feathers barely able to move. Yet when they were outside… Dean forced himself back out of his memories, snatching his beer back up. He drained it in a few greedy gulps.

“You require my assistance in the defeat of a vampire?” Castiel repeated mildly, cocking an eyebrow for a moment before he nodded. “I will assist you. When do we depart?” The Angel always spoke so matter of fact. Dean rubbed a hand over his cheeks, over his mouth, over his flexing jaw as he forced down the sarcastic reply. Sarcasm was wasted on Cass, he took the words too literally and might disappear on Dean.

“Yes, Cass, that was what I said. I don’t want to risk my ass taking it down. My ass is my only good quality,” Dean offered the Angel a cocky smirk, drowning the internal discomfort with his snappy banter. “I bet you could take him down in less than a minute, feather-boy.” The Hunter swung his feet over the edge of his bed, rising with a stiffness brought on by too many hard falls and the too cold air. He grabbed his coat off the back of a chair, shrugging it on as he headed toward the door. Cass followed him wordlessly, frowning at the sight of the torrential rain that still slammed down outside.

“Dean,” Castiel’s voice was almost hesitant, stopping Dean at the door with his hand extended toward the handle. “If you do not wish to be drenched, I can fly the two of us there in seconds.” Dean shifted his weight away from the door and turned to look at the Angel, standing with stiff discomfort. This was the first time he had ever offered to fly Dean anywhere. A moment’s glance toward the window and the sheets of freezing rain made his mind up. “Deal. I don’t feel like freezing my balls off.”

“It’s not cold enough to freeze your ba-” Cass started to explain but he was quickly cut off by Dean flapping his hands, waving away the explanation. “Phrase of speech, Cass.” The Angel blew out a short sigh of annoyance, he still struggled with expressions. Dean wiggled uncomfortably in the sudden silence before he blurted, “Let’s go, Cass. That vamp ain’t dying with us collecting dust here.” He barely finished the words before the Angel had an arm around him and the noise of feathers brushing through air filled his ears.

They were surprisingly soft and warm, brushing over his skin in a way that brought goose bumps rising up. There was a brief moment of weightlessness before his feet slammed hard into sudden ground and had it not been for Castiel’s arm wrapped tight around his waist, Dean might have stumbled or fallen. As it was, the Hunter ripped himself free of wings and arms, taking a hard step backwards and away from Cass. Breathing suddenly felt a little more difficult, his lungs clenching hard for a brief moment. Then he forced down the discomfort like so many times before.

“Of course you already knew where the vampire was,” Dean muttered when he finally looked around, recognizing the warehouse he had scoped out two days before. He was glad there was a machete already belted around his waist, left there from earlier. Castiel just stood with his serious eyes and stared at Dean, not offering a word of opinion as the Hunter floundered awkwardly. “It’s in the next warehouse, we can go through the door over there,” a flick of his hand pointed where, “and the guy nests down there.”

It was awkward moments like this that Dean missed Sam the most. Castiel never offered more than the strictly necessary few words whereas Sam would banter and laugh with Dean through any hard case. The loss squeezed his heart as he rolled his shoulders, loosening the muscles that tightened when he felt nervous. “Alright chatty Kathy, let’s roll.” The machete was drawn with a smooth pull, the metal gleaming wickedly in the flare of lightning that lit up the warehouse every few seconds.

The two shared a quick look, blue meeting green for a bare second before they moved onwards to the joining door. Dean moved with stealth born of years of practice, Castiel moved with the innate grace of an Angel, making no noise. A nod from the Angel had Dean leaning back with practiced ease, swinging his boot upwards to slam into the door. It cracked open with a bang, leading them into the adjacent warehouse. Dean cupped a hand next to his mouth and roared, “Alright come out and play you filthy fucking blood sucker.”

Adrenaline sped like a drug through his blood, speeding his heart beat up, awareness sliding over his mind like oil over water. A faint hiss was the only warning given before a shape detached itself from the shadows and slammed heavily into Dean, throwing him hard into the ground. His machete clanged with a metallic grind against the hard concrete floor, drowning out the hard huff as the air was knocked from his lungs. “Cass!” he managed to wheeze as hands clamped down hard around his throat, squeezing sharply.

Thwack. The meaty noise of a head rolling over the ground preceded the loosening of the hands around his neck. Dean shoved the suddenly slack vampire aside, the corpse sliding limply to the ground as the Hunter wiped blood off his face. “Oh, dude, seriously. Gross.” He groaned, voice tapering off to a harsh cough and sharp inhale. He blinked the water from his eyes and saw Cass standing nearby with a bloodied machete clasped in his hands, looking unruffled by the turn of events. The only sign of his alarm was the twitching fluff of his wings, feathers spike outwards in alarm.

Dean roped his arms loosely around his knees as he sat up, still working to catch his breath. “Thanks Cass,” he added after a moment, almost absently. The Angel just nodded before he cleared his throat, a queue learned from Bobby over the few months. It was enough to get Dean’s undivided attention, his eyes glued to the Angel that was suddenly shifting from side to side, looking fidgety. Cass was never fidgety, the damn man could almost be a statue at times, he barely moved beyond breathing. “Uh, what’s up, Cass?”

“What I am about to say is of utmost importance, Dean. You must never repeat this. I fear it may be disastrous in result if any soul were to overhear.” Castiel spoke gravely, coming to kneel next to the sitting figure of the blood spattered Dean. “You must know. When I rose you from Hell, you broke the first of a series of seals. These are barriers meant to keep Lu-“ The Angel suddenly gagged on his words, choking on the sentence. Fear turned his eyes a glassy shade of pale, pale blue even as he fell sideways.

Dean lurched over toward the convulsing Angel, hands clamping down on the twitching shoulders. “Cass? Cass, what’s happening? Damn it. Cass!” Dean shouted, pressing down hard on the shuddering and spasming body. Was the Angel having a seizure? He scrabbled at the clasp of his belt, jerking it free from the loops. A wayward wing snapped him in the face, blinding him briefly as he fell away from the seizing Angel. Spit foamed from Castiel’s mouth, dragging slow trails from his lips to spatter on the ground. His eyes bulged as his body arched upwards from the ground, slamming back down to twitch from side to side, repeating in a sick pattern.

Dean crawled back over to the Angel, unable to see from a rapidly swelling eye. Damn that would be a wonderful shiner in the morning. He clamped a hand down on Castiel, creeping his fingers up to firmly hold onto his jaw. “Damn it Cass, you’ll choke on your own tongue, if you aren’t already!” The Hunter was panicking, his voice trembling as he shouted. He worked his hand into the mouth of Cass, yelling when the Angel bit down on his fingers. He pried his jaw back open, slipping the stained leather of his belt over Castiel’s tongue, holding it down.

A brief look confirmed his fingers were broken, bleeding from the ragged cuts inflicted from the biting teeth. In the space of that two seconds, the seizure ended, leaving the Angel laying far too limply on the ground. Dean scooted forward on his knees, “Cass? Come on buddy. Cass? _Castiel!_ ” He grasped him by the tan fabric of his trench coat and shook vigorously until he was staring into bloodshot blue eyes once more. A hand clamped down on the Hunter’s arm, trembling as the body near him heaved with gasping breaths.

“Cass, what happened?” Dean winced when he saw how awkwardly bent his wings were, crushed under the previously thrashing body. “D-Dean. I don’t know.” Castiel’s voice was hoarse, barely more than a choked croak in the thick silence of the warehouse. “Something attacked me, I think. I cannot remember what occurred.” Dean frowned at that, leaning back to sit hard on the ground to ponder the sudden commotion. He barely moved when he felt the gentle touch of two fingers to his forehead, the pain of his injuries fading under a brief warm heat.

“You were explaining something about a seal before it happened,” he offered when he looked up at Cass, now sitting next to Dean. His wings were folded tight against his body once more but now there was a noticeable damage, feathers sticking out, broken from his episode. Castiel’s expression darkened with confusion, his voice thick and slow. “A seal? I know nothing of a seal, beyond the fundamental requirement of seals such as those around doors.” His head tilted off to the side, that curious little movement that was purely Castiel.

“Forgive me, I must leave to investigate this mystery. I apologise that you sustained injury during my attack.” He rose while speaking, cautiously extending his wings in a slow stretch. They quivered for a moment in an unfelt breeze before rising and falling in a powerful beat. Yet, instead of disappearing with that tell-tale sound of feathers through air, the Angel instead dropped to his knees with an inhumane scream that shattered the windows of the warehouse. Dean slapped his palms over his ears, a scream ripped free as blood immediately rushed from his nose and ears.

“God damn it, CASS.” Dean shouted, the words thin inside his own mind, muffled from the outside world. He sat there, hands firmly clamped over his ears, face buried into his knees, until he felt that gentle touch to his head. His hearing rushed back with that warm heat, prompting him to look up. The Hunter was shocked to see the tears that glided down the face of Castiel; he hadn’t even known Angels could cry. “Cass, what happened? Was it another attack?” The babbled, breathless reply had his blood running cold as ice, sharp in his veins.

“Dean. I can’t fly. They took it away from me. My flight. I can’t… I can’t fly.” Castiel looked as broken as his voice, shattered as he stared at Dean with those bloodshot blue eyes. Thunder rumbled overhead and lightning reflected in the wet tracks coating the cheeks of the Angel.


	6. Chains and Wings

###  Showers.

The freezing rain spattered down in sideways sheets, driven by the howling wind. It soaked through clothes in seconds, plastering the garments flat in a second and a half. It made carrying an almost catatonic Angel a hair away from impossible. The rain soaked into the feathers of his wings, turning them into heavier and heavier weights. Dean staggered through the storm, feet dragging as he hauled Castiel. The Angel had one arm and wing slung over the Hunter, sagging into Dean’s supportive embrace and barely moving his feet enough to walk.

Dean didn’t voice any complaint, despite the fierce shivers that spasmed through his body. He just heaved his feet through one step after another, eyes shielded with one hand against the driving rain. He was eventually slamming into the door of his rented room, numb hand scrabbling at the handle with a key. The click of the lock disengaging was lost in the broken wail of the wind and a quick jerk of his hand had the door swinging open, the half frozen duo falling into the room.

A quick kick slammed the door shut behind the pair, Dean blinking hard at the sudden bright light of the room. He stood for a long moment while a puddle grew under this feet, Cass barely hanging onto him. The room barely felt warmer than the freezing temperature outside, both of their bodies shivering in the cold of the space. “Cass? Cass. I-I need to w-warm up,” Dean managed to croak out after a too long moment of near silence, their shaky breathing the only sound beyond the vague whir of the appliances.

“I’m going t-to take… a shower,” He carefully eased the unresponsive Angel down to the floor, wincing when his shoulder twinged with pain from hauling the sodden weight around for too long. Castiel did not respond even though he was sat in the midst of the puddle growing from the drips of their clothing. Dean worriedly looked Cass over, bending down for a moment to frisk the Angel for any sign of injury. His search yielded no results; the Angel was perfectly sound in body, just not in soul. The Hunter straightened with a mumbled curse and staggered over to the bathroom, fumbling with his waterlogged coat as he walked.

Dean shucked off shirt and jeans, dropping them in a pile with his coat on the dirty tile of the small bathroom. He turned on the faucet of the tub, waiting until the rushing water was a lukewarm temperature to swap it into the shower setting (it felt molten to his half numb hands). The hiss of falling water was soothing, softer than the pounding rain of the storm outside. A low rumble of thunder rattled the walls, followed soon by a sharp crack of lightning.

He shuffled out of the bathroom, returning to his alarmingly quiet Angel who hadn’t moved an inch in the time it took for Dean to prepare the shower. “Cass, wake up, buddy. I don’t know if Angels can get pneumonia. Can your vessel get sick?” There wasn’t a reply, not that Dean was really expecting one. He sighed wearily before working at removing the sopping trench coat that clung to the Angel’s form, making him look so much smaller. It was truly a feat to wiggle it off, working it over his wings. “Damn it Cass. How do you manage this every day? Wait. Huh, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in different clothes.”

The drone of his babbling voice was almost lost in the roar of the storm that lashed at the motel. Dean did not care in the slightest that he was babbling, the need to make noise was almost overwhelming as he methodically stripped the Angel. His fingers scrabbled at the knot of Castiel’s tie until it loosened enough to be pulled off, getting tossed aside carelessly. The shirt was too much for Dean with bother with, a few slices of a small pocket knife had it removed in under a minute. Another few minutes were used up in removing the ruined dress shoes Cass wore, socks following quickly. Then the Hunter leaned himself under Castiel’s arm and wing, leveraging the weight over Dean’s shoulder enough for him to pull the both back to standing.

A few staggering steps had them in the bathroom, where Dean shoved the shower curtain aside. He unceremoniously dumped the Angel into the tub, the spray of the shower hitting him full on. Dean dropped into the tub next to him, groaning when the stinging water hit his cold skin. “God damn it, Cass,” he sighed. “I’m sitting mostly naked in a tub with a mostly naked Angel. No homo though, right? Fuck. If I get pneumonia, I’ll kick your feathery ass.” His voice echoed hollowly in the room, giving the words an almost tinny feel.

While he rambled on, the Hunter absented reached over to shove one of Cass’ wings down a bit more; the wet feathers had been tickling his cheek, making the skin itch a bit. The motion drew Dean’s gaze downward until his eyes rested on the shiny scars of a handprint burned into his flesh, long since healed over. Before the disjointed memories of Hell could overwhelm him, he turned the hot water up, the spray gradually warming up until lazy swirls of steam curled in the air. He scrubbed a hand over his face, watching rusty flakes of blood wash away from his face, surprised the rain hadn’t washed it all away.

The ceiling groaned and popped, randomly settling in the way old buildings did. The entire time they sat in that tub, the water slowly turning skin pink with the heat, Castiel did not move or speak. His only sign of life was the rise and fall of his chest; the occasional slow blink of his still bloodshot blue eyes. He sat still, huddled in the tub next to Dean, water running in rivulets over his skin. When Dean no longer shivered or felt as if ice were sitting thick in his veins, he shut the water off. The drain gurgled loudly in the thick of the silence, pipes groaning as water drained away.

“Cass, I’m not hauling you out, you hear?” Dean braced his hands against the lip of the tub, pulling himself up until he stood, scattering droplets of water as he did. “Get your ass up. You can borrow my spare clothes but there ain’t a chance in Hell that I’m changing you into them.” He gently nudged the Angel with his foot before climbing over the side of the tub, wincing at the chill of the tile under his heated skin. He set two towels down on the seat of the toilet, “Dry off. I’ll be back with clothes in a few, alright?”

Dean slowly backed out of the bathroom, pulling the door almost shut as he left. A third towel lie crumpled on the bed, left there from washing his face that morning. He grabbed it, roughly toweling the fabric over his skin until he was mostly dried. He vaguely heard the sound of movement from inside the bathroom, something he took as a positive sign as he padded over to his duffel bag. The first set of clothes he fished out where quickly pulled on, catching slightly against his damp skin. It was nothing special, just a black t-shirt and another pain of well-worn jeans.

The clothes he fetched for Castiel were his pajamas, a comfortable set of sweat pants and another black t-shirt. He ran a hand through his still wet hair, wondering if Cass had been given enough time to dry off and be decent. The Hunter blew out a sigh before turning back toward the bathroom. He immediately whirled around with a startled oath, his voice tight with alarm. “Damn it Cass! The towel goes around your waist! I did not want to see you totally naked.” While Dean had been getting dressed, Castiel had stripped himself of his remaining sodden garments and now stood in the doorway to the bathroom. Rather than use the towels to dry himself off, he just stood with a confused expression, water dripping onto the carpet.

“Use the towel and wrap it around your waist, c’mon man. Show some modesty,” Dean instructed as he ran a hand over his face, rubbing at his eyes tiredly. He heard the muffled sound of a towel being shaken out, the heavy rustle of wet wings moving. “Here, I have some spare clothes for you,” he began when the silence resumed, raising his hand where the pile of clothes balanced on his palm. A short moment later the clothing was gently taken, “The shirt, you can cut the back if you need to for your wings.”

A rumble of thunder rattled the windows of the motel room as Dean flopped heavily onto the bed, arms and legs flared out wide. Outside the hard pound of the rain eased into the softer patter of a drizzle. Dean wiggled against the uncomfortable mattress of the bed, trying to sink down a bit more. Next to him, a new weight settled into the bed and a few scattered droplets splattered against his face. “Aw, Cass, c’mon. Are you still wet?” He rolled over with a groan, blinking hard and looking over to the Angel.

With the too large clothes of the Hunter on, Castiel looked smaller than he had before. His shoulders were hunched inwards as if a great weight were settled atop them, his head ducked downwards, giving his form a diminutive appearance. His wings weren’t pulled in tight, the usual habit of the Angel when he stayed indoors. Rather they were loosely spread, feathers dripping onto the bed. Dean noticed the towels sitting folded in Cass’ lap, now wrinkled from use. “I require your assistance. I cannot reach far enough.”

That prompted Dean to notice that only the parts closest to the Angel’s shoulders were still wet, feathers clumped. “Can… will you help me?” His voice was softer than usual, the usual self-assured tone absent, replaced with an ache of loss and fear. The events of the night seemed to weigh down harshly on the Angel, the attack that rendered him bound to the ground crushing hard into his soul.

“Yeah, no problem, Cass.” Dean pulled himself up until he sat just behind the Angel, reaching around to grab a towel. “You can’t mojo yourself dry and clean anymore?” He asked in a deceptively mild tone, carefully smoothing the towel over the blue black of Castiel’s wings, combing his fingers through the larger feathers. They were incredibly soft to the touch, the feathers closer to his shoulders a bit fluffier than the ones toward the bottom of his wings. He was careful to work around any broken feathers, avoiding the splintered ends.

“Something has bound me, I cannot access but a small fraction of my grace. It is similar to a wall with a crack, allowing the tiniest portion free for my use. I am unable to use enough for the purposes you speak of. It took everything I had to heal you earlier, in the warehouse.” Castiel held mostly still under Dean’s ministrations, occasionally flinching or shuddering at a stray touch. The Hunter just worked as quickly as he could without doing damage until the wings looked almost normal, if a bit roughed up in places. “I feel tired, Dean. My eyes feel weighted,” the Angel mumbled.

“You’re sleepy, Cass. You take the bed, I’ll take the floor. I’m sure there is a spot we haven’t dripped on.” Dean scooted over until he hopped off the bed, feet thumping against the floor. He spared a few minutes to gather the scattered bits of clothing that littered the room, arranging them over the back of chairs, the side of the tub, and even over the shower rod holding up the curtain. He folded the damp towels, leaving them on the counter next to the sink. The Hunter barely had the energy to brush his teeth before he was stumbling over to a chair.

Castiel was already asleep, curled up in the middle of the bed, snoring ever so softly. His wings were curled protectively over his body, shining dully in the light of a lamp next to the bed. Dean snorted softly, shaking his head at the sight of an Angel sleeping. It was oddity that was for certain. But the Hunter barely had the energy to ponder the situation before darkness washed over him, the pull of sleep too strong to resist. Within moments, the room was filled with the quiet sound of two different snores; one was quick and snuffly, the other slow and growly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone feels confused, Cass is essentially a human with wings and a tiny bit of grace now. Which means he will start picking up habits that his grace used to take care of for his vessel, like sleeping. 
> 
> Please leave comments and/or kudos! :) I am putting a lot of work into the story and would love some feedback. I feel a bit awkward without anything to tell me how I'm doing.


	7. Chains and Wings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slow development chapter. Next chapter gets exciting. ;)

### Human.

There was only one place safe enough to take care of a broken Angel. A broken Angel that was unwilling to admit he was broken. A place where broken cars litter a gravel lined lot, where weeds sway lazily in the breeze, and a house sits on a dusty patch of grass, sagging with that lived in, homey look. That place was owned by Bobby Singer, an old mechanic who liked his alcohol too much and had a slight hoarding problem. It was the perfect place to take a broken Angel, a perfect place to slap on a mental band aid and look into a solution to fix what was broken.

That was how Dean found himself standing in the shed, rooting through a plastic grey storage bin, Castiel standing to the side with his eyes cast downwards. “These were Sammy’s, when he was around twenty. We were almost the same height back then,” Dean explained as he pulled out neatly folded clothing from the bin. His voice was forced into a neutral tone while his mind recoiled, memories of his dead brother haunting him. There was the faintest scent still clinging to the old clothes, something that was purely Sam and it ripped fresh holes into the heart of the Hunter.

Nonetheless, Dean rose with his arms full of the outfits, turning toward the too quiet Angel. “They’ll still be a bit big but they’ll work better than my clothes.” He coughed awkwardly before shoving his burden into Castiel’s arms, forcing the Angel to clutch the clothing close or risk them falling to the ground. “Why don’t you go change, then I can teach you some necessity tasks, alright?” He offered a brief smile (it turned out more like a grimace though) then marched his way back into the house, boots crunching through the thin layer of snow that dusted the yard.

Once he was inside, Dean made a beeline for the kitchen, for the cabinet that held too many bottles of whiskey. He poured himself a too generous glass of the amber liquid, throwing it back with a long pull, relishing the burn sliding down his throat. He had a daunting task before him, the task of teaching a broken Angel how to cope with his newfound humanity. Castiel was not stupid, in fact he was stunningly intelligent, but there was too many things he did not know. Too many things his grace had taken care of for him, doing the busywork of maintaining his vessel.

The Hunter dragged a hand over his face, shaking his head ever so slightly. The next few days would be a trial for sure, the task of teaching someone so smart such basic events would be maddeningly frustrating. Bobby had already opted out of helping, his comment swimming in Dean’s head, “he’s like a baby in a trench coat!” Instead the mechanic was searching through his hoard of books, hunting for a particular spell. The two had decided the attack was most likely demonic in origin and their best bet was to kidnap and interrogate a demon. Luckily for them, Bobby had a particular grudge to settle.

A dozen or more years in the past, when Bobby was younger and spryer, a demon had hunted down and killed his childhood friend. Although killed was too gentle a term. The demon had ripped the man apart, torn him limb from limb, and left him to die in a pool of his own blood where his wife would find him, three days later. This would be the perfect demon to summon and capture, the perfect demon to let loose years of rage and pent up anger on. All Bobby needed was the spell to bring the bastard in; he was sure such a spell lurked in the pages of his books, just waiting to be spoken aloud. Until then, Dean would act as caretaker of Castiel, would teach him how to live without his grace doing all the dirty work. The thought alone had the Hunter taking another hard gulp of alcohol.

_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Castiel stood before a mirror, his gaze fastened to the sunken blue eyes that stared back at him. He tilted his head to one side then the other with a frown, hand raising to smooth over the thick stubble on his cheeks and chin. He lifted his shirt, twisting as he studied his bared chest and back, shifting his wings upwards. A few scratches marked him, popping out red and angry against the paleness of his skin. He poked experimentally at a yellowing bruise, wincing at the slight pain.

He dropped his shirt back down, the soft black fabric settling against his skin; he still wore Dean’s clothing from the night before. The new clothing Dean had given him was on the bed in a neatly folded pile, he couldn’t quite bring himself to change. Besides, he couldn’t find a knife or scissors in the room to make the shirts wearable. Cass let his wings settle back down, snug against his back, his nose wrinkling at the faint odor lingering about his body. He would have to ask Dean about it later.

A sudden bang on the door made him jump partly in alarm, a moment later Dean was popping his head in. The Hunter’s voice was partially slurred, the words smearing together. “Cass, c’mon. We’ve got some learning to do!” Castiel offered him a nod for reply, smoothing a self-conscious hand over his shirt as he moved toward Dean. Learning? The statement sent an unhappy shiver up his spine, dread slipping through his veins. Being a human was extremely inconvenient.

Nonetheless, he followed Dean down a short hallway until they stopped in front of the last door on the left. “I’m going to teach you some basic shit,” Dean was saying as he opened the door, exposing a surprisingly clean bathroom. Cass rolled his shoulders, pulling his wings in a bit more tightly against his back, uncertain about the confining room. He saw an assortment of supplies on the counter as he stepped in: a can, a disposable razor, a toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste, and a white towel.

Dean plucked up the toothbrush and paste, dumping the items in his hands while he spoke rapidly. “You use the toothpaste and brush to clean your teeth. Sorry dude but your breath smells like ass.” The Angel scowled for a short moment before uncapping the tube, squeezing the open end into his mouth. Immediately he gagged on the sharp taste of mint, coughing and spitting into the sink with a curse as his tongue burned coldly. Meanwhile Dean was laughing hysterically, hands clutching the counter.

“No, no, no, Cass! You put like a pea sized amount on the toothbrush, then brush your teeth. Not use half the damn tube,” he squeezed out between giggles and a wheeze for breath. Cass scowled again before following the instructions, scrubbing the stiff bristles against his teeth, trying to not gag at the foam filling his mouth. The bitter taste that had previously pervaded his mouth faded to a pleasant mint. When he felt his teeth were, ah, “brushed” enough, he spat out the foam into the basin of the sink, sliding his tongue over his teeth.

Next thing he had a razor and can pushed into his hands while Dean started up again, voice still amused. “Great, well done, you have to do that twice a day. So, uh, let’s move on to shaving, which will be fun. Ok, ok. Push the button on the shaving cream- that’s the can- yeah, there you go. Use your hand, catch it- damn it, let go of the button, yeah. Good.” He obeyed the instructions, marveling at the white foam rushing from the can. A bit splattered onto the tile of the floor as he scrambled to catch the rest, Dean’s rushed voice raising a blush to his cheeks.

Dean, with surprising patience, guided him through the hazardous process of shaving. He smeared the foam over his face, smoothing it over the spots he had missed. The razor was tricky to maneuver, it bumped unevenly over his face, grazing through the shaving cream. He winced at a sharp pain but moved onwards at Dean’s urging, dipping the blade in water a few times. When it was all done, he sighed at his reflection in the mirror. A half dozen nicks bleed openly over his face, but all the stubble was gone, lessening the gaunt look to his face. He used a splash of water and the towel to wipe away a few stray flecks of cream.

“Well, you look like you smashed a window with your face. Don’t worry, it gets easier,” Dean commented wryly before gesturing toward the shower. “Now you get to shower, ‘cause you stink, Cass. Humans need bathing every day or so, otherwise you get smelly. And while you had a rinse last night, you didn't get any soap or scrubbing.” There was no malice in the Hunter’s voice as he bent down next to the tub, switching on the water. “The blue is cold, red is hot. Turn the knobs to adjust the temperature. Shampoo goes in your hair, the white bar gets rubbed over your body. Wash all the soap off before you get out, ok?”

Castiel shifted uncomfortably, coughing to catch Dean’s attention. When he spoke, he forced his voice to be bland, devoid of emotion. “My wings. I need to cover them; if they get wet too often, they develop an unpleasant odour and itch unbearably.” In the past, his grace kept up with the maintenance of his wings; only having experience the situation twice before, the discomfort distinct in his memory. Feathers weren’t easy to scratch through and the itch was dreadfully persistent.

“Right, yeah, ok. Uh, damn. Wait, we have some garbage bags. A little tape and walla, water proof wings, right?” Dean edged past him after he shut the water off, brushing against his feathers as he left the small room. Within a few minutes he was back with a roll of tape in one hand and a bundle of black plastic in the other. “Ok, this will be interesting. C’mon, shirt off, you don’t shower with clothes o- just the shirt Cass!” Dean’s voice turned to a slight yelp, cracking at the last word.

Castiel’s shirt was laying on the counter, already discarded, and he was in the process of removing his jeans. The yelp made him pause though, hands hovering over the undone zipper. “You said I cannot shower with my clothing on. I am removing my clothing,” he spoke slowly, confused with Dean’s behaviour. It dissipated with the explanation the Hunter offered, “You can take your pants off after I leave. We’re just gonna cover your wrings first, ok?” He nodded before turning sideways, letting his wings ease open loosely with a slight shake.

It took twenty minutes, four garbage bags, and a plethora of cursing to cover his wings. Dean muttered the curses, hands smoothing the plastic over his feathers and taping it into place. The thin plastic clung uncomfortably, rippling noisily, the tape rubbing against his skin. It was terribly unpleasant, yet he did not offer complaint. “There, that should work,” Dean took a step back to survey his work for a moment; then he turned the water back on, the soothing hiss of the water filling the room. He left the small room with a spry little wave, speaking over his shoulder, “Call if you need help, don’t drown!”

Castiel discovered in a short amount of time that hot water felt incredible. The water pressure was excellent, spraying hard against skin in a comforting way. It took some coordination to wash himself, his wings kept brushing against the wall, making the tape pull tight against his skin. He scanned the back of the bottle labeled ‘shampoo’, mouthing the directions before squirting a dollop into his hand, scrubbing it vigorously through his hair. He had to crane his head a bit to rinse the suds free, water hitting the plastic over his wings with a light pattering sound.

He repeated the routine with the white bar he found, rubbing it over his skin until he was covered in a thick layer of soap. A few splashes of the hot water rinsed him clean, leaving him free to enjoy the feel of the shower. His muscles slowly loosened under the hard spray, he shifted enough to lean against the wall, pleased as his eyes closed. Cass didn’t know how long he stood there; it was long enough that his skin turned a shade of vibrant pink. But, in the space of one second to the next, the water flushed into an icy cold.

It stung his skin, sharp with a sensation similar to needles, wrenching a shout free from his throat. He flung himself sideways without thinking, desperate to escape the freezing water. His knee thumped hard against the side of the tub, giving out with a flash of pain. The Angel tumbled out of the shower, landing hard on the tile and skidding until his head clashed with the door, stopping his progress with a loud crack. Vaguely, through the ringing in his ears, he heard a shouting and pounding, “Cass!? CASS!”

The door pushed hard against him as Dean struggled to get into the bathroom, shouting the entire time. Castiel groaned at the commotion, head aching horribly as he wiggled over just enough to let Dean through. The Hunter burst into the bathroom, almost tripping over him, a shotgun brandished. “Cass! Were you attacked? What happened? Wait… did you break the door? Damn it, Cass.” He was speaking too fast to keep up with, voice rushing through emotions: fear then confusion then amused yet disgruntled.

An hour later, Castiel was dressed in clean clothes and sat down on the couch with a hot cup of tea settled in his hands. He felt the hot burn of a blush across his cheeks as he quietly explained what had happened to Dean. “The water. It was hot and comfortable one moment, then turned extremely cold the next moment. It, uh… It, it startled me. I panicked.” He hunched forward, waiting for the laughter. Instead, Dean just snorted and plopped down onto the couch next to him, shaking his head.

“Cass, you have a lot to learn. How about some TV. Let’s watch it for a bit while the aspirin works on your cracked head, ok?”


	8. Chains and Wings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg some actual destiel fluff. apologies if this chapter feels rushed, its like 1:30AM. :D

### Torture and Grief.

The hoarse scream bounced dully off the walls of the basement, echoing back in a faint overlap. A wet slick cut off the tail end of the next scream, ending it in a bubbling gurgle turned to a cough. Dean licked his lips and grimaced at the vile hint of iron; blood had sprayed on him from his, ah, delicate ministrations. His tongue clicked against his teeth as he paced back and forth, tapping a knife lightly against his cheek. “I’m not fluent in screams. Are you ready to answer my question yet?”

In front of the Hunter was a bloodied wreck of a body, black eyes staring with uncontained rage. It was a pretty vessel, or had been before Dean began working it over. A curvy woman dressed in a glittering black dress with flaming bright hair, curling artfully in a cascade down her back. Her once pretty face was twisted with inhumane hatred, snarling her reply through clenched teeth stained in blood. “You can take that knife and shove it up your ass, Winchester.”

Dean chuckled coldly, his voice tainted with self-deprecating humour. “I said the same thing to Alastair once, you know. Except a bit more, what’s the word? Eloquently. Are you thirsty? Because I am.” He seized a jug of holy water off a crimson stained tray standing next to his captive and upended the contents over her head. The sizzle of holy water making contact with the demon’s flesh filled the air, her screams following shortly. Insults perfumed the screams, squeezed out in short gasps.

He tossed the empty jug aside carelessly, the holy relic inside rattling against the plastic. “I won’t ask again. Who attacked the Angel, Castiel?” His voice started soft but ended in a roar, covering the sound of a blade sinking into the meaty part of her thigh. She groaned weakly, voice reduced to a gravelly shadow, head rolling limply backwards. Dean jerked away with a frustrated curse, leaving his knife still cloaked in her flesh. “If you won’t speak, I’ll make you. I spent ten years under Alastair. Ten years learning pain from the master of torture, the master of friggin’ pain.”

He stomped back to the tray, bypassing a line of knives and a bloodied whip, seizing a syringe capped with a long needle. He plunked it down next to his second jug of holy water, muttering quiet curses under his breath as he dumped salt in it. A brief shake stirred the water up, the white grains dissolving. “I didn’t learn this from Alastair. But I figure it will work like a charm in making you sing,” he said bitterly as he filled the syringe with the salty holy water. “I’ll give you ten seconds to start talking or you get an injection of the good stuff here.”

The demon spat out an insulting slur that suggested his mother had been a whore and his father made a mistake bedding her, producing the disgusting disaster that was Dean Winchester. In reply, the Hunter sank the needle into her eye, finger slowly depressing the plunger, emptying the contents. She screamed that wordlessly scream of true and utter pain, scrabbling frantically against her bonds. Her legs jerked brokenly against the chair, feet sliding and skidding in the blood that saturated the floor. Barely a moment later her eye burst with a sickening pop, splattering out a mix of gore and holy water.

_“We… Don’t… Know.”_ Her words oozed out brokenly, breast heaving as she gasped in desperate air. Her limbs still convulsed in her bonds, growing weaker as she adjusted to the pain, a crimson tide trailing down her cheek. “We don’t know. It wasn’t a demon attack,” she sobbed. Dean watched her emotionlessly with the syringe still in hand, water dripping slowly from the needle. He cocked his head to the side as he dropped the syringe onto his tray; it clattered noisily and the demon flinched with fear. That was the last sound she ever heard for a split moment later, her head was rolling on the ground. Dean withdrew with a machete in hand.

The Hunter methodically worked through the process of cleaning up his mess, he dumped bleach on the bloodied ground then used a hose to wash the mix down a drain. He took an hour to burn and bury the body and another half hour to wash himself clean in a scorching hot shower that left his skin red and almost raw. When he stomped down the stairs to seek out a bottle of whiskey, he stumbled into the hard body of Castiel, standing at the bottom of the stairway. “Dean? Did you get the information you wanted?”

“Yeah. Uh, no. Demon’s didn’t do it,” Dean mumbled as he side stepped around Cass, avoiding his wings as he continued to the kitchen. He heard the soft footsteps of the Angel following him. “Demons, uh, they aren’t what attacked you.” He forced his voice to be calm and neutral as he fetched down a half empty bottle of alcohol, twisting the cap off and taking a long pull of the amber liquid. It burned in his veins, singed his throat in a too familiar way, and sat thick as lead in his stomach. He barely paused before he knocked back another shots worth, hissing out a long breath after.

When Castiel spoke, his reply startled the Hunter into compliance, he obeyed without a thought. “Hand me that bottle.” The Angel tilted his head back, throat working as he chugged down the whiskey. Dean pursed his lips and nodded, impressed at how quickly Cass knocked back the drink. It turned to alarm when he realised Cass wasn’t slowing down, he drank down the entirety of the bottle in under thirty seconds. He coughed and blinked, lowering the now empty bottle.

“God damn, Cass. Guess the news weren’t what you wanted, huh?” Dean commented as he brought down another bottle of whiskey from the cabinet. “Of course it wasn’t. We’re back at step one.” The Hunter ran a hand jerkily through his hair and frowned with distaste at the shake in his hands. His mind threatened to break under the memories he desperately forced down. Disjointed screams and maniacal laughter whispered in his head, he clenched his jaw against them. “C’mon, Cass, how ‘bout we take this party to the other room?”

He spared a moment’s glance at the Angel, whose eyes were beginning to grow glassy, his wings drooping drunkenly around him. Cass offered him a sloppy nod and lurched forward, shoes scuffing against the ground as he followed Dean into the adjacent room. They dropped onto the couch together, it groaned under their weight. Dean twisted the cap off his bottle, taking a quick gulp before handing it off. “I’m sorry, man. I… I tried my best. But they aren’t guilty. For once.”

~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Castiel relished the thick burn that eased through his veins, dulling his senses with each pulse of his heart. It lessened the crippling weight of dejection that Dean’s words had awoken inside him. They had wasted _weeks_ in the hunt for a spell to summon the demon. Hours filled with the screams of their fights had haunted the house. Too many bottles of alcohol had tumbled down throats. More and more restless nights had wrecked through him while he searched through book after book, unraveled dozens of scrolls.

And it was not the wasted time that weighed the heaviest on his shoulders. It was the consequence of their find. He saw the turmoil in Dean’s eyes, the barely suppressed memories. The Hunter had dug up the darkest of his secrets to extract the worthless information for him, had delved into the training he received in Hell. He saw the devastation in each swallow of the alcohol rolling down Dean’s throat, each gasp when it pooled in his stomach. It was why Castiel drank with him.

The liquor aided him with the press of guilt. It blanketed all his emotions with a warm blur, smothering them into a tolerable level. It gave him the strength to speak even though it slurred his words, “You did everything you could. For that, I cannot thank you enough, Dean.” He shifted forward a fraction, shuffling his wings tighter against his back to ease the discomfort of sitting against the couch. He blinked dozily, a slight noise bothering his ears when his words faded into silence.

A wet, repressed snuffle. A muted snort, stuck in a clogged nose. A slight gasp, choked off hurriedly. Castiel turned his head to look at Dean with surprise, finally realizing the Hunter was _crying_. It wasn’t overwhelmingly obvious, in fact he was suppressing much of the sounds and his face barely betrayed his emotion. It was only the wet trail down his cheek betraying the path of a tear and the nasally catch of his breathing unable to pass through his nose. Castiel hesitated at the realization, uncertain how to proceed.

He deduced the alcohol had broken the inhibitions that prevented the Hunter from previously breaking down. The two of them had nearly drained the bottle by now, only a few sips left in the clear glass. He worried his bottom lip with the press of his teeth, biting absently in a gesture learned from Dean. What was he supposed to do? What was the human approach to grief, to pain, sorrow? He did not know what was appropriate and he was slowed down with the drunken weight of whiskey.

Perhaps it was the whiskey that led him to slowly ease a wing from where it was trapped behind him. He flexed his feathers, relieving the slight ache from being tucked in so tightly, extending it outwards until… Until he enveloped Dean in the warmth of blue black feathers, brushing gently against the skin of the Hunter. The Angel held stock still, waiting with baited breath for a reaction, afraid of an explosive response. Yet it did not come, rather Dean just sank into the embrace, sucking in a hard and shuddering breath.

“Cass,” his voice broke with a soft gasp, unshed tears lurked in his voice, loud enough that even Castiel could hear. “I did horrible things, Cass. I tortured so many souls. At first I hated it but when you rescued me… When you saved me, I loved it. And I hated you for saving me. I have tried so, so hard to forget what I have done. But it all came back so easily, so quickly tonight.” The Angel’s heart throbbed with pity as he listened to Dean. The shattered regret tugged the human emotions free inside him, overwhelming him even beneath the daze of alcohol. He tugged Dean closer with a gentle flex of his wing, drawing him deeper into his embrace.

“Dean, Dean.” Cass rushed to whisper, desperate to make him understand his next words. “I raised you from the pits of Hell. I am the one who gripped you tight and rescued you from Perdition. I saw your soul in the purest way, even through the corruption of Alastair. Your soul is beautiful and pure, Dean. I rebuilt it, I purged the corruption. Do not be bound by the guilt of Hell, it no longer stains you.” He pressed his hands tighter against the bottle still clutched in his grasp. “If anyone is worthy of guilt, it is me. You would not have needed to relive those memories if I hadn’t asked you.”

He felt his breath trapped in his too tight chest, unable to draw fresh air back into his lungs until a gasp ripped hard through him. He was surprised at the hot brush of the tears sliding down his cheeks, tears that sank into his clothes, leaving the slightest damp spot. He was even more surprised when a warm hand carefully drew the bottle from his grasp, pulled it away to be set down on the ground. Dean wordlessly clasped his hand around Cass’ and pulled their hands down to rest on his knee. “Thank you, Cass.”

The Angel and Hunter sat like that on the couch. Dean leaned into the warmth of Castiel’s wing, head drooping against his shoulder, his thumb lazily dragging against the back of the Angel’s hand. Castiel let his cheek rest against Dean’s soft hair, slowly breathing in the faint scent of his shampoo. They both soon gave way to the drag of sleep, alcohol still rushing through their veins like a thick drug. It erased the boundary that usually stood between them. And when Bobby found them slumped together on the couch, he just muttered ‘idjits’ and draped a blanket over the two, shutting off the light and carrying away the empty bottle of booze.


	9. Chains and Wings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry if this chapter comes off a bit hasty. next chapter should be actiony! and finally give us some answers!

It became an unspoken agreement between the two: that night was top on the “do not speak of” list. Neither were willing to acknowledge what had happened between the two while their blood drowned in whiskey. So, when the morning dawned too early and too brightly, they hurriedly stumbled their own way with pounding heads and heaving bodies. Bobby was less than sympathetic to their case; he only threw aspirin down onto the table, followed quickly with the slap of a newspaper hitting the old wood surface. Dean winced at the sound, hand clutching his coffee mug a bit tighter.

“Damn it Bobby, it’s too early to make that much noise.” His voice was a croak, still stuffy from sleep and the hangover. The old mechanic snorted with disgust as he moved to fetch his own cup of coffee, ignoring Dean’s question and forcing him to lean forward, eyes squinted to read the small print. In the too small words a small section explained a man had been found dead inside his home, chest ripped open, heart missing. It was the third death of this nature in the area. “Werewolf? Wolves?”

“Yup. You an’ feathers are goin’ after it, too many dead as it is.” Bobby grunted as he fell into a seat next to Castiel, who was running a hand through his messy hair and yawning sleepily. The Angel blinked dozily at Bobby before he offered him a short smile, not even registering the mocking tone to the nickname. “It’s in Colorado, near that damn mountain people always ski on. I wan’ ya both gone in an hour, ya hear?” When Dean started to argue, in the middle of tipping three white pills into his palm, Bobby just offered him a fierce glare. He went quiet immediately and instead chased the medicine with a gulp of coffee.

Sure enough, within the space of an hour, the two were loaded up into the Impala and roaring away at 85 miles an hour, the landscape turned to an artful smear outside the windows. Carry on my wayward son blared through the radio over a faint undertone of static, just a hair louder than comfortable for listening to. Dean drove with his hands clenched on the steering wheel, he stared straight ahead without a word spoken. Castiel was curled up in the back seat, wings awkwardly tucked around him.

Castiel studied the back of Dean’s head with a perplexed expression, a frown marking his forehead. His thoughts were in turmoil, confused tumbled over and over within his head, it was enough to bring up a dull ache, unassociated with the copious amount of alcohol consumed the night before. Emotions were still too new to him, he hadn’t had the time to explore each feeling as they came. No. Life with Dean Winchester was too hit and run to stop and contemplate what he felt.

This was a precious and rare moment for the Angel. He took each thought and gently examined it, thoroughly explored each emotion that bubbled so restlessly within him. Only a few had a name he could place, a few unnamed ones escaped his current knowledge, unlabeled but still felt so keenly. The night before was the source of most, if not all, his current conflicts. The feeling of Dean under his wing had been so utterly peaceful; it had been warm and safe and secure. And when he woke, sprawled out on the couch with the Hunter’s body pressed so neatly against his, it had kept that note of peace.

Then Dean had awoken next. It was a process that fascinated Castiel, the process of waking up. His breathing had slowly eased away from the deep and slow pace of sleep, smoothed into the quicker breath of the waking world. When Dean woke, he started to move a little as his dreams eked away. His fingers fluttered restlessly, his legs flexed slightly, his lips moved with unspoken words and mumbles. When he finally blinked open sleep clouded eyes, they had been such a beautiful shade. A colour that he struggled to put word to, even with his vast knowledge as an Angel.

They had been the palest of green, edged in a darker ring. The soft sunlight that filtered in past the curtains almost turned them a yellow gold, highlighting hidden flecks of colour inside the familiar green. And, for the barest of moments before he remembered the world, Dean’s gaze was absent of the horror that stained his life. For the briefest of seconds, he saw what Dean might have been if his life hadn’t turned him into a Hunter. Two sleepy eyes full of relaxed energy that blinked slowly, highlighted by a simple smile.

Yet it all was shattered when his breath became hitched and rushed, heart hammering noticeably under Castiel’s arm, draped comfortably over his chest. Dean shot upright, a hand accidentally getting pressed hard into a wing, fingers crumpling the feathers for a moment. Then he hopped off the couch as if someone had lit him on fire. Castiel watched with a bewildered expression, wondering where the moment had gone. He absently smoothed the crumpled feathers with a quick few strokes as Dean wildly muttered something then bolted for the bathroom.

Castiel tenderly turned the memory over in his head, relishing the gentle beginning and rough end. Dean just vomited copiously for a while before he came out, shaking and pale. He urged Cass up with a touch to his arm, not even uttering a word. And there they stumbled with aching heads and heaving bodies into the kitchen. And now he was crammed into the too small backseat of the racing Impala. His wings ached something fierce, wanting to be freed from the confinement of the car.

As if Dean had read his thoughts, the car started to slow until they pulled off the highway to bump down a gravel side road. Within minutes the car was pulled into the driveway of a shady looking cabin that sat crookedly in the beginning to a forest. An early March snow dusted the house, doing nothing to hide the signs of age. Dean slipped out of the car, running a hand over the top as he walked toward the cabin’s door, leaving the Angel to sit with uncertainty in the backseat. He bit at his lip with irritation, an emotion he was growing too familiar with, then made his mind up.

He eased himself out of the vehicle, sighing with pleasure at the brisk wind that brushed through his wings. They flared out behind him, arching upwards toward the sky in a lazy stretch that had the muscles burning temporarily. Then he shook himself vigorously, feeling comfortably loose after the too tight squeeze of the car. A curious look around showed nothing special beyond snow coated trees and an almost hidden gravel road. He puffed out a breath that smoked in the frosty air then followed in Dean’s footsteps toward the door.

It had been left ajar and he felt a wonderful heat easing out, urging him inside. Cold and warmth were new sensations to him, although he felt he was a bit too acquainted with cold. He hated the way it numbed his skin and made his body shake; no, he definitely enjoyed warmth a lot more. His borrowed boots tracked snow on the scarred wood floor as he walked inside, hand shutting the door behind him. It was pleasantly cozy inside the cabin, cleaner than he had expected with comfortably worn furniture. Dean was busy lighting a fire inside the hearth, Cass heard his voice as he muttered curses.

A moment later there was a soft _swoosh_ and a fire erupted into life, raced over the logs and paper with consuming orange and yellow. Dean leaned back on his heels with a satisfied smirk then he eased himself back up with a light groan. “Alright Cass,” his voice was deceptively neutral, “Time to do some research. I’ve got the laptop, you’re going old school.” The Angel warily eyed him as he moved over to a couch, gratefully sinking into the worn cushions closest to the fire. It was blissfully warm.

Dean went outside for a few minutes to fetch their supplies, all of which were dumped unceremoniously onto a coffee table. “Here you go, feathers. Read up.” A pile of newspapers and a book or two tumbled into his lap, thanks to the Hunter. Castiel looked down at the headline for the top paper, it was something about a sport. Dean left him to his task, taking up residence at the kitchen table; he tapped away animatedly at the small laptop he’d brought in. A small rumble clenched his stomach and the Angel hoped that lunch would be soon even as he started flipping through pages, half distracted by his empty stomach.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_

“God damn it, Cass, _duck_!” Dean bellowed as he wrestled desperately with a werewolf, she snarled and snapped inches away from his throat. In the corner of his eye, he saw his Angel about to be pounced on by the kid. He should have known the case was too easy, the body trail too clumsy and neatly followed. Castiel successfully ducked under the attack, using a buffet of his wings to stun the pup.

It had been a cookie cutter case, all tied up in a little bow, ready to be delivered into his hands. A family of werewolves got a bit too sloppy, left their killed victims to be discovered by accident, chests ripped open and missing hearts. It barely took two days to track them down and find their home. Dean had sworn it was just the husband, who spent the previous night drunk at a bar. Castiel argued it may have been the wife, who had been unobserved at home.

Neither of them had expected it to be the whole damn family. They used their child as bait, a small boy that couldn’t be older than six but was more blood thirsty than either of his parents. They had burst the door down to find the boy chowing down on his own father’s heart, absolutely drenched in blood. Behind them his mother arrived, her shocked voice breaking the silence with a heart broken, “Cameron, no!” Then it dissolved into a snarl when she caught the sight of the silver blade clasped in Dean’s hand.

And now here they were. Dean grappled roughly with the savage werewolf, his arm strained as he tried to get his blade up just enough to finish her off. An almost feral growl scraped his throat as he shoved with all his strength, vaguely wondering if they had caught werewolves on freakin’ steroids. With a wet slick the silver knife slipped into her flesh, skin smoking with the burn of the blade. She screamed with straight agony before she slumped lifelessly in his arms, body shuddering out its last breath. Dean shoved her aside, let the corpse hit the floor with a dull thump. Dread welled in his veins as he turned to check up on Castiel, he half-expected to see that little boy dining on Angel heart.

Instead he was greeted with the sight of Cass holding a bloodied angel blade, the boy dead at his feet. Dean sucked in a relieved breath, chest loosening just a fraction. He hadn’t even noticed it was so tight, so hard to breath. “That… that _sucked_ ,” he managed to pant out between a few labored breaths as the adrenaline slowly drained out of his blood. It made his hand shake as he cleaned his weapon and stuck it haphazardly hilt down in his pants, the point barely pricked at his back. “I thought you were dog chow, man.”

He watched as Cass carefully cleaned his angel blade before he stowed it away. The Angel rolled his shoulders carefully before bringing in his wings until they were tucked safely against his back. It was something he did often when in door; the blue black feathers were always clasped snug against his back to avoid knocking shit over. He had noticed it long ago at Bobby’s house, the over cautious way the Angel minded his wings. It looked uncomfortable. Dean coughed when he realised his mind had wandered a bit, he had missed Castiel’s reply.

“Uh, sorry, man. Little out of it. I think that bitch knocked out what little sense I had,” he barked out a coarse laugh, moved to stand a bit closer. “Let’s get cleaned up back at the cabin and then I’ll make some dinner. Burgers are on the menu! We deserve a treat.” He edged past Cass and hurried through the usual process of wiping away their finger prints, he erased the signs of their involvement with practice guiding his tired hands. Castiel did not offer another word for Dean, instead he stood awkwardly off to the side.

When they left, the Hunter stopped just long enough to see a feather float through the air to rest delicately against the carpet. Bemused by the sight he stooped to pick it up, tucking the black feather into his pocket after he ran a finger over the soft plume. It was not the first feather he had retrieved in the wake of his companion. They were falling out with increasing frequency over the past two days. If the Angel was concerned, he did not speak of it. He never stopped to fetch his falling feathers; that was something Dean did by himself. An unknown reason urged him to collect them rather than leave them behind.

The drive back to the cabin was utterly silent beyond the purr of the engine and the quiet sound of the radio, faint in the background. The silence persisted long after they arrived, continued through Dean’s shower. The silence stretched like a thick fog as Dean prepared and cooked dinner, making up a few burgers on the wood stove. One turned out burnt but the others looked and smelled delicious. He took the burnt one, left the two perfect ones for Cass to eat whenever he finished his clean up. The quiet stayed unbroken until Cass emerged freshly clean from the bathroom, hands clutched around a first aid kit.

The Angel sucked in a breath before he tersely spoke, wide eyed blue gaze glued to the medical kit. “I have sustained a wound from the fight. I cannot stop the blood flow, my grace is entirely shut off from my access. Are you able to…” he floundered for a word before he gave up, a flush flared bright on his too pale cheeks. Dean abandoned his half eaten meal at the table, guiding Cass down to the couch. The wound in question was a few deep slices across his chest, cut deep into his right breast. They wept blood in a dark stream.

“Oh shit, yeah, you’re going to need some stitches.” Dean whistled low in sympathy as he dug out a needle and thread from the kit. He stuck the end of the needle in the fire for a moment then wiped the blackened end. “This is gonna hurt like a bitch.” He stuck his tongue out absently as he threaded the needle with a mumbled curse or two. “Like really hurt.” He clarified when Cass didn’t reply, something he was getting used to from the guy. It took less than ten minutes to stitch and bandage up the cuts, a stretch of white gauze secured around Castiel’s chest.

Cass was a good patient for Dean; he barely moved throughout the process, only hissed in pain once or twice when Dean accidentally dug the needle in a bit too deep. “Alright, dinner is cold by now but you should eat. Lost a bit of blood there,” he commented as he started cleaning up the aftermath of the impromptu surgery. When the bloodied gauze and excess thread and stained wash rag was cleaned up, Dean turned to check on Cass. He was curled up on the couch, hidden in a mass of blue black, snoring not so quietly. Dean rolled his eyes heavenward at the sight, sparing only a moment to throw a blanket over Cass’ exposed legs. Then he packed away their dinner into the fridge and left for the bedroom, feeling too exhausted himself to care. In fact, he was so exhausted, he ended up falling asleep with his shoes still on.


	10. Chains and Wings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops i almost posted this on the wrong fix. bad me

### A Cross in the Road

It was six in the morning. Snow fell heavily from the pre-dawn grey of the sky, swirling in gusts of biting wind. Enormous snow banks were already formed against the walls of the cabin, some up to the window. A figure was tucked away in the haze of the flurries, barely seen as the flecks clung to him. Another person, still hidden inside the warmth and shelter of the cabin, watched the figure with a pair of concerned green eyes, still foggy from sleep.

Only ten minutes earlier, Dean had woken with a gasp in his bed, heart hammering hard in his chest. His mind roared with a half forgotten dream and a sudden revelation, a solution to their plight. Before it could disappear with his dream, his feet had hit the ground with a thump and he almost ran out of the room. When he turned the corner of the hallway, all he found inside the living room was an empty couch and a blanket on the floor near the door.

He had just barely caught sight of Castiel outside when he grabbed his coat in a panic, ready to launch himself out into the sudden winter storm. It was enough for him to pause by the window, coat halfway shrugged on. A frown marked his face as he watched the Angel, eyes briefly caught on the sight of snow dusted wings. He knew it had to be blisteringly cold outside, he could feel a bit of wind as it leaked through the window, ghosting coldly over him.

Dean only stood there for a short while before he made up his mind to fetch his stupid feathery friend back inside. Castiel couldn’t know the repercussions of standing in the cold for this long, the chance of a cold or pneumonia or worse. He finished pulling on his coat, one of his favourites in fact, and double checked that his boots were tightly laced up. He steeled himself against the cold as he opened the door and stepped out into the weather.

“Castiel!” His voice was immediately whisked away by a greedy gust of wind, the name falling into nothing. He forced his feet to move through the heaviness of the thick, wet snow toward the Angel. “Cass,” he shouted when he was in a closer proximity. The nickname seemed to reach Castiel, for he turned slightly toward the sound. An expression of surprise flickered across his face before falling away into a frown.

“Cass, get your feathery ass back inside.” Dean lowered his voice, now only slightly above normal while he stood beside his companion, face creased with worry and irritation. “It’s freezing balls out here, man. You’re going to get sick. You aren’t even wearing your stupid trench coat,” a note of accusation coloured his tone now as he gave the Angel a quick once over. “Why are you out here in the middle of a friggin’ storm?”

Castiel absently shook his wings with a flick, snow falling away in clumps. Dean worriedly noticed that a few feathers fell too, quickly lost in the white of the ground. “I felt caged inside, it was too stifling. I needed to stretch and think. It’s peaceful out here.” His voice sounded mournful, too soft and almost stolen by the wind. Dean felt a rush of guilt grip him hard but he shoved it aside as his remembered solution exploded back into his thoughts.

“Let’s get back inside. I’ll make some coffee.” Dean hesitated for a moment before he placed what he hoped was a soothing hand on the Angel’s exposed arm. He allowed a hint of hope into his next words, “I think I might have an answer for your problem. But I’ll only tell you if you come in out of the storm, ok?” He reeled back the urge to point out that Cass was shivering, he could feel it through his hand where he touched his cold arm. Castiel offered him a tired looking nod before he shrugged away Dean’s hand and started off toward the house. The Hunter watched him as he left before he followed, heart heavy with his concern.

Once they were both back inside the shelter of the cabin, Dean hung his coat up and started a pot of coffee. Soon the rich aroma of the strong blend filled the air, mixing with the heady scent of the wood fire in the other room. When the pot stopped chugging, he poured out two mugs and brought one to Castiel. He had sat down at the table and now stared out the window, blue eyes faded with an unfocused look. The click of the mug against the wood snapped him out of his daze and he breathed a thanks before taking a cautious sip.

Dean lowered himself into one of the other chairs and circled his cold hands around the warmth of his own mug. He cleared his throat with a short cough before he launched into his explanation. “I uh, had a dream. Last night. It was about Sammy, uh, but you don’t need to know about that. Anyways, long story short, I think we can visit a Crossroads demon. A few years ago, Sammy and I took down one that Bobby had found. They grant ‘wishes’,” his fingers clawed the air in short air quotes, “for the price of your soul. Nasty bastards.”

He was distracted for a moment when Castiel shifted in his seat, wings rustling as he adjusted them. When Castiel spoke up, it jostled Dean free from staring a bit too intently at his wings. “You cannot sell your soul for me. I refuse to let you,” Uncharacteristic anger bloomed through the Angel’s voice and his fist banged down suddenly against the table. “I rescued your soul from Hell, Dean! You will _not _sell it.” Dean blinked at the heated voice, taking in the flush across Castiel’s cheeks and his clenched hand atop the table.__

Then he hurriedly rushed to assure him, his words blurred together as he hastened to explain. “No, no, Cass. We’re going to trap the demon. No one is losing their soul. There is a water tower near the site I have in mind, I figured we can paint a trap on the underside and lure the demon under it. That way we bargain their freedom for our information, no soul needed.” His hands waved absently as he spoke, fingers spreading in a gesture at the end. Castiel pondered the plan, the flush of anger changing to one of embarrassment as he took a quick drink of his coffee to hide it.

“How soon can we be there?” He asked after a moment of silence, a new determination turned his formerly dull gaze back to burning bright with renewed energy. His shame at his emotional outburst faded away, taken by his eagerness. Dean smirked at him, relieved to see him perking up a bit and amused at the rush of different emotions the Angel displayed. He took a quick gulp of his own coffee and pushed away his now empty mug.

“Less than a day’s ride. Finish your drink, feathers, we’ve got a long drive ahead of us.”

_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_

Dean hung haphazardly from the frame of the old water tower as he shook a can of spray paint vigorously. “Almost done, Cass,” he called down as he finished spraying on the last line of his devil’s trap. He spared a moment to admire his handiwork before he dropped the can to free his hands for the climb down. Frozen grass crunched under his feet as he landed back on the ground, having jumped the last bit.

“Alright, you ready? I’ll go bury this,” he fished out a small box from his coat pocket and raised it briefly, “and you hide off to the side.” He turned with the last of his words to look over toward Castiel, the barest hint of a smile marking his face. The thrill of adrenaline surged through his veins, filled him with a reckless sort of energy. Castiel, though, looked a bit sour at the thought of having to hide. He started to open his mouth, as if a few hot words were ready to be spat out but then he snapped his lips shut. All Dean got for a reply was a terse nod and a mighty scowl while he unhappily walked away.

“Don’t pout, you’re my insurance if something goes wrong.” Dean called after Cass and he fought the urge to roll his eyes as he crouched down on the crossroads. It was a bit difficult to rake his hands through the frozen dirt, one of his nails cracked in the process. In a matter of minutes, the box with his picture, some graveyard dirt, and the bone of a black cat was buried. Dean brushed his hands against his jeans as he rose from the ground, one of his knees popping from the movement.

A sultry voice purred through the air behind him, “Well, well, well. What do I have here?” Dean turned slowly to find a man standing in the middle of the crossroads, dressed in an expensive black suit and smug expression. The Crossroads demon was stunningly handsome with artfully tousled black hair and drowsy brown eyes, narrowed with triumph. “Is that Dean Winchester? No. It can’t be.” He circled the Hunter once and his tongue clicked against his teeth with satisfaction, oblivious to Dean’s heated glare.

“It is an honour to meet you. You’re quite a legend downstairs.” He lazily stretched his hands through the air as if he presented a banner. “Dean Winchester. ‘The One That Got Away”. The demon stopped his inspection and stood in front of Dean with a sleepy looking smile that matched his eyes. He raked his gaze once more down Dean’s body with an admiring glint and he waited for the inevitable words.

Dean steadied himself against the rush of hate that filled him, an itch to start a fight. He forced himself to smile, made it waver as if desperation were making it too hard to keep his façade up. “I want to make a deal,” his breath fogged through the air when he spat out the words through his clenched teeth. The demon licked his lips, a bored expression replaced his previously excited one. He stalked forward the final step between them and leaned in uncomfortably close.

“Of course you do, Dean. Why else would you summon me?” His breath smelled sweet, like rotten blood, and Dean repressed the shudder of revulsion that threatened to shiver through him. “Let me guess. You want your brother back, huh? Want your little Sammy alive and well again, hunting at your side as you two wreak havoc across the states.” His hand rose to gently cup Dean’s face, his fingers tightened briefly on his chin.

Dean’s breath caught at the words, stuck in his chest suddenly as his world dropped out from under his feet. “Y-You can bring Sam back?” His voice broke on Sam’s name, turned it sharp and cracked. The demon started to speak, a trace of confusion blooming over his borrowed face. But before the words were uttered, Castiel slammed into him, tackled him downwards. They crashed against one of the legs supporting the water tower; it groaned ominously above them. Castiel grunted with pain when the demon scored a well-aimed kick, the heel of his dress shoes hitting the Angel’s stitched chest.

“You bastard,” the Crossroad demon rose from the ground with a furious expression, his too pretty face twisted in murderous rage. He flung his hand outwards, twitching his wrist up in a sharp gesture toward Castiel. When nothing happened, he repeated the gesture impatiently while the Angel desperately scrambled backwards out of the trap. The demon realised his error as he lunged, too late, for the only chance at his escape. He slammed into an invisible wall, hand missing Castiel by barely a centimeter and his eyes burst into a ruddy red, erasing any shred of humanity that had lurked there.

Dean had watched the encounter with a blank expression for a moment too long, belatedly reaching down to help Cass up. His mind reeled with painful memories of a faded face and almost forgotten voice, already all blurred with time. The desperate desire to see his brother again seized his chest painfully, his heart hammered with the need. He looked at Castiel with a broken expression, the curses of the demon a faint sound in the background, drowned out by the roar in his ears. His Angel stared back with sympathy and his wings dropped with it, the tips brushed the ground.

“Dean. If you want your brother back instead…” He started in a quiet voice, devoid of any trace of regret or anger. Dean felt his gaze begin to drop but it was taken by the sight of the red that bloomed through Castiel’s white button up. It was enough to help Dean steel himself against the need that burned through him, he shook his head vigorously and turned back to the demon. He threw his shoulder back and straightened up; brought a cocky smirk to his chapped lips.

“Look up.” He offered helpfully to the demon, who still cursed colourfully within his trap, and his calm voice didn’t betray his inner turmoil. He felt the comforting touch of Castiel’s hand on his arm, it gave him the strength to continue on. “We painted the trap earlier. You’re our bitch now. Tell us what we want to know and you may earn your freedom as a reward. Sorry, neither of us feel like losing a soul today.” He bared his teeth in a mock smile, rubbed their victory in like salt in a wound.

“Like Hell I will. When I’m free, you will wish you were still in Hell. I will torment you for a millennia for this slight. I will hunt down every person who ever even looked at you and torture them for years to come. Blood will run freely like water, I swear it Dean Winchester.” The demon snarled, malice dripping from his voice like a poison and his chest heaved with ire. He had moved as close to the wall of trap as he could, Dean just yawned impertinently at the threat, baring his teeth at the end in an almost feral grin.

He pulled a sheet of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it with a flick. “You’re our bitch, demon. Either give us the information or get exorcised. I doubt your boss will be pleased that you got caught by a Winchester.” He dropped his gaze to study the lines of Latin neatly etched across the page, written by Castiel earlier. Speaking of, he spared a moment to look at his Angel. He still stood next to Dean, though now his hand had dropped and his wings were crooked outwards in a threatening display. The fall of a feather dampened the effect though, it drifted toward the ground to land among the frosty grass.

The demon spat out a mirthless laugh, a brittle chuckle that crackled through the air. “Do your worst.” He dared with a taunting tone, spitting at the Hunter with distaste. Dean stepped back to avoid the wad of spit, wrinkling his nose at it. He brought the paper up and focused on the words once more.

“ _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus,_ ” he spoke with confidence, the Latin coming out smoothly through the air. Every word made the demon flinch in pain, his limbs spasmed with the influence of the exorcism. “ _Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursion infernalis adversarii. Omnis legio, omnis congregation et secta diabolica._ ” The demon started to choke and gag now, throat convulsing as smoke oozed brokenly from his mouth. He gasped and heaved with desperation against the exorcism and he fell to his hands and knees as his body twitched viciously.

Dean continued mercilessly through the chant and now Castiel had joined, his voice strong and clear. “ _Ergo draco maledicte et omnis legio diabolica adjuramus te. Cessa decipere huma-_ ” The demon screamed suddenly, voice ripping the air violently. “Stop! Stop,” he managed to gasp through the pain, black smoke dripping through the words. They paused together midway through a word as Dean lowered the paper slowly to observe the demon. Victory sparked through his eyes, turning them a brilliant shade of pale green. He raised an eyebrow inquiringly as he neatly folded his paper.

“I will tell you everything you want to know. Just stop.” The demon coughed, blood speckled his meatsuit’s mouth. He slowly forced himself back to standing, body cracking with the movement. “Everything you want,” he reiterated, panting with exertion. Dean smugly put his paper away, tucked it into the pocket of his jeans. He clapped his hands together, rubbing them to warm his too cold fingers.

“Great. That didn’t take too long. Leave your balls at home?” Cass made a noise of dissatisfaction at Dean’s taunt, making the Hunter frown briefly. Then he sighed noisily through his nose and cut away his other taunts that were already lined up to be said. “Alright. Alright. We want to know what is wrong with his grace.” He jerked a hand sideways to point toward Castiel, who now studied Dean with his head cocked to the side.

The demon clenched his jaw briefly with anger before he visibly forced himself to calm down. He smoothed his shaking hands over his suit and rolled his shoulders. “His grace is still there. Barely. I can feel it, radiating power, but it feels almost like someone threw a blanket over it. Or caged it.” He narrowed his eyes and stared at the Angel, his voice terse and clipped. “Your grace is like... hm, a muscle. When you don’t use it, it goes away. You’ll be human soon.”

Dean stiffened with a rush of emotions, they boiled under his skin with a sudden ferocity. “Who did this to him?” His voice lowered to barely above a whisper, gritting out through clenched teeth. It turned to a shout of alarm as a blinding light exploded around the demon, blinding him briefly. He stumbled back even as he heard Castiel yell, blots of black speckling his vision. He blinked furiously as he jerked out the pistol he had stuck in the back of his pants, finger sliding the safety off.

When he could see again, he was surprised to see the demon slumped in a limp tangle on the ground. His eyes had been burned out, the flesh around them blackened and bubbled; it left the empty sockets bleeding slowly through ash that once was eyes, not fully cauterized closed. If his stomach hadn’t been turned to iron by his profession, he might have puked at the horrific sight. Instead he raised his gun upwards, focusing it on the new person that had arrived.

Whomever it was, they argued viciously with Castiel and their raised voices were alarmingly loud in the crossroads. It wasn’t in a language that he recognized and he took a wary step forward. Castiel flinched at the crunch of boots, his too wide eyes turning toward Dean as if he had suddenly remembered him. The argument died down as Cass walked toward him, wings outstretched again, flared with his temper. Feathers rained down on the ground with each step.

“Dean, you can put away your weapon.” The Hunter levered a frown at his companion, eyes flicking toward the new arrival with distrust. It was a stocky looking man, arms bulging with muscle as he crossed them over his thick chest. He had dark skin flecked generously with freckles and had hate filled brown eyes, narrowed toward Dean with an obvious look that said he immediately disliked him.

His Angel surprised him when he gently pressed his hand against the gun, encouraging Dean to lower it. His hand was comfortably warm, finger splayed across Dean’s own and the cool metal of the gun. He reluctantly obeyed and murmured in a soft voice, still focused on the stranger. “Do you know him, Cass?” It was an almost too long moment before Cass withdrew his hand, moving to stand beside him again. He felt the slight tickle of feathers through his coat as Cass pressed his wing against Dean.

“My name is Uriel. And yes mud-monkey, your Angel there, he knows me. I was once part of Castiel’s garrison.” The man brushed his hand over his clothes while he spoke, a well-fitting suit made of black cloth with a pale blue button-up shirt. Uriel had a heavy voice, thick with an accent Dean couldn’t place. “You two imbeciles should thank me for my timely arrival. I may have just saved you from certain death.” He smiled thinly, a poisonous look filled with loathing. “Your demon there had back up heading this way. If I hadn’t killed him, you would both be dead.”

Dean went to speak, already heated words ready to lash out with sarcasm but Cass silenced him with a pointed look. He instead spoke up himself, voice neutral with only a vague hint of gratitude. “Thank you, Uriel, for your interference. Perhaps you may instead provide the information we were seeking.” He splayed his hand out toward the demon to indicate it, “We have discovered my grace had been locked away. The demon was about to reveal who attacked me. Without my grace, I, myself, cannot find the answer but surely you are able.”

A disdainful note sparked in Uriel’s voice as he replied, a sneer too evident. “If you were stupid enough to get attacked, Castiel, why should I levy the information you need to you? Find the answers without my aid. Surely you and your savage can find them through another method. Though I advise you exercise more caution for I may not be there to save you again.” It was now that Dean realised he could not see the wings of the other Angel for all he heard was a soft whoosh as Uriel vanished.


End file.
